The Final Step
by David Macintyre
Summary: Living the lonely life of the guardian has become too much for Knuckles to bear any longer. His visits with his friends start to lose their uplifting effect. His dark reality closes its grip on him, while his own hold on reality begins to loosen...
1. Cold

Author's foreword: This fic contains a dark theme, sex scenes, foul language, a little violence, and everything else your mother told you not to eat when you were a child. If you're one of the types who prefers campy adventure or bad lemon material and are offended by reality, stay away.  
  
To give credit where credit is due, Stephen Zacharus is to thank for the existence of this fic-if he hadn't suggested I do a serious work rather than continue Kung Fused, you wouldn't be reading this.  
  
Enjoy.  
  
==--==--==--==--==--==--==--==  
  
THE FINAL STEP  
  
A more serious Sonic fic by Tengu2  
  
Story copyright©2002 Tengu2, David Macintyre, any of my aliases.  
  
Characters and locations copyright©???? Sonic Team.  
  
==--==--==--==--==--==--==--==  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
  
COLD  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out.  
  
***  
  
*Lightning* *thunder* *rain*  
  
God, it's cold.  
  
*lightning*  
  
It's taken me long enough to figure it out. I deduce that I've been cold for the last hour or so. Freezing for the last twenty minutes.  
  
*lightning*  
  
God, it is so cold here. I hate it. I despise it. I loathe it.  
  
I loathe this dismal, dingy, dark, damp, dusty, dickheaded, and other things that begin with D Angel Island. An island. A fucking island about fifty yards from one end to the other on all sides. In the middle of the freaking sky.  
  
How do I survive up here? My mind is so clouded with thought that I've forgotten what there is to eat up here. There's an apple tree. A bare apple tree. And the things I occasionally get from Sonic and the others when this idiotic piece of floating shit decides to drop down into the sea below. For no apparent reason. They last me about a week, if a day. Because I'm so goddamn hungry.  
  
There's nobody else here. I'm all alone. On this island. Fifty yards wide. In the middle of the sky. With no food. No water. And a huge, freaking piece of green shit-covered rock to protect with my life and my sanity for the rest of my days. Which could be anywhere from tomorrow to eternity. There's nothing to kill me up here, obviously.  
  
*lightning*  
  
The rain has soaked through all of the ink in my magazines. A few somethings I picked up last time I was down below. when I was so fucking gullible. Then he lent me the money. And I changed my mind about him. Obviously the blue man knows about being blue. And alone.  
  
I'm not surprised. He won't give that pink girl the time of day, let alone what she wants. How the hell is he supposed to get something anywhere else? I don't even think a prostitute would do multi-species. Oh well. I know what it's like. I hear you, brother, and all that. I think he's deaf.  
  
No point in keeping garbage around. I pick up the pile of magazines and tense up to keep warm and somehow dry. They're not worth much anyway. most of the pages are stuck together anyhow. There's Time and all that sort of shit. But those wear out quickly. Vicki, Hustler, Playboy, more important than current events-and they last longer. I'm not into the outside world. I never have a reason.  
  
"Bubye, Angelique," I say, taking the mags and chucking them over the side to the sea below. Let some lucky fish have some fun with them. No use to me anymore. Lucky for me I've got a hell of an imagination. It comes natural up here.  
  
I can go to the movies that I direct. I can watch the TV shows I devise. I can read the books I write. I can listen to the CDs I burn. Yet I have none of these things in any physical form. Most would call me lucky. I don't think so.  
  
Nobody ever thinks of this side of me. Of my life.  
  
They read the interviews, they watch me on Letterman after the big stop- Eggman events. Sonic hogs the limelight. It's not his fault. Nobody ever wonders how fucking lonely I may be when I head back to the floating piece of boring crap in what most of you probably think is Heaven.  
  
There's a word I'd like you happy people to learn. It's called masturbation, but it likes to go by several light hearted nicknames. It can get tiresome after. three years? I'm sixteen. Nightly. Daily when I'm bored.  
  
But they don't care.  
  
I'm just the hero.  
  
They don't care.  
  
They don't care that I'm alone. They don't care that I'd never get asked out. The young girls who give me those dreamy looks? No. The elderly types who look like they'd like to share a cup of tea? Hm. Nope. Even those guys. They give me 'the look'. 'the whistle'. but not 'the line'. like I'd turn them down. Honestly. None of them even stop to consider what I must go through.  
  
'Angel' Island. A blatant misnomer. I'm in Hell. Who knew the fiery pits of Hades would actually be up here in the sky? Who knew the supposed eternity of torture and pain would actually be phrased like this? Close to God, you might say. That's what THEY said. Phaw. If there was a such a sweet, merciful Lord of all in the skies above me, he would've killed me a long time ago.  
  
It's so FUCKING COLD!  
  
*lightning*  
  
It's RAINING!  
  
*thunder*  
  
IT'S POURING DOWN BARRELS, KENNELS FULL OF CATS AND DOGS ALL OVER MY FEVER- STRICKEN CORPSE!  
  
*lightning*  
  
GOD, GET ME OUT OF HERE!  
  
Nothing happens, of course.  
  
But then there's a huge crash from the master emerald.  
  
And the Island begins to fall.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest.  
  
***  
  
Small talk. Shit, it's all I ever have time for on my short visits down below. Story of my life. Of course, small talk has become similar to sex for me. I only get it every once in awhile. Good enough.  
  
We've moved on from small talk to full scale conversation-oh good, orgasm.  
  
"It was really weird," I'm telling the others. We're at the burger shop in Station Square.  
  
"So we've heard," Sonic comments sardonically.  
  
"I'm not crazy," I insist, not believing myself. Sonic rolls his eyes.  
  
"Right."  
  
"Fine. Fuck it, I'm crazy."  
  
"Yeah, well, what can you expect?" Amy asks, giving Sonic a disapproving glance. He chuckles in that way of his which shows he is playing around with her again.  
  
"That was genuinely insensitive," I say, grinning. At least she's on my side.  
  
"I can't imagine what it must be like up there, all alone," she says. "You must get really bored."  
  
"That's why Sonic lends me money," I say, cutting him off. We both laugh. Amy looks disgusted.  
  
"You two are sick," Miles comments, chuckling as well. Good old Miles. I remember what I was like on the front of adolescence, like him. I of course didn't have the advantage of TCP/IP. I like to see how he develops as a youngster. Remind me of what I never had. What I never got to go through. School. Homework. Girls. Exams. Graduation. I am now 18 and still a virgin. Unfortunately I am unable to be the sort of mentor to young master Prower that Sonic is. And that's probably a good thing, because I'd most likely screw him up. Make him a loser. Like me.  
  
God, I know how gay I sound.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Indeedly doodly."  
  
He chuckles and shakes his head.  
  
"Look, back on the topic, I'm not crazy," I say, adjusting the collar of the black winter coat Amy bought me. A large, black trench coat. I like it. Makes me look Russian. Or something like that. At least it'll keep me warm in the rain.  
  
"I think you are."  
  
"You don't count."  
  
"Aww, now you hurt my feelings," Sonic says sarcastically. Amy shoots him another look.  
  
"You don't count either," he says to her. She pushes him and looks hurt.  
  
"Look, just give me some time and I'll figure it out," I say. "When," I say to the waitress who has come with our pitcher of soda. Coke, Root beer, insert your favorite. She smiles at me. I smile back. When she leaves my sight I frown and roll my eyes. Obviously pity. She's been listening to us for the last ten minutes.  
  
"Ooh, she likes you," Miles says pitifully. The age old pathetic 'she likes you' insult.  
  
"She wants you BAD!" Sonic adds, punching me playfully.  
  
"You've been smoking again," I say to him. He half smiles, half frowns.  
  
"Naw," he counters. "Just stoked." A deliberate pun.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I dunno. Just jazzed to see you again, buddy, I haven't seen your butt- ugly face in years. Where the hell have you been, man? We miss you."  
  
The answer is.  
  
"Where the fuck do you think?" I say, glaring at him. He realizes he was won 'stupid, insensitive question of the day'.  
  
"Busted," Miles whispers under his breath.  
  
"Cancel my order," I say to the waitress, who nods. She seems somewhat happy to see me go. I can't tell. It's been too long.  
  
I get up and leave in a huff. Miles is taking a sip your favorite flavor of soda, not really knowing the significance of the incident. Amy is giving Sonic one of her looks. Like he cares. I know he doesn't feel that way about her anyhow. She's just a source, as it were.  
  
Outside, I pull out a pack of cigarettes from the front of the jacket, a pack Sonic got for me, of course. I know I shouldn't have gotten so angry with him. But it was genuinely the wrong question.  
  
"God damn," I mutter to myself, lighting one of them with a pack of matches I found on the street. So this is what my life is reduced to. Smoking a pack of cigarettes that my friend bought me, out of the pocket of a jacket another friend bought me, outside of a restaurant for lunch that both friends are buying me, angry because I'm so sick of how horrible my life is. God, some people would kill to have their friends buy everything for them. But for me it's not quite enough. I need love.  
  
Not in some sexual or mushy sense of the word. I need love. And to love. From other people, to other people. I need to be civilized. Because that's who I am. Or is it? It's been far too long since I've ever had to live like a normal person for me to tell.  
  
"Knuckles," Sonic calls, coming out of the restaurant looking for me. I'm smoking, of course. He spots me, and catches up.  
  
"Knuckles."  
  
"No, the prime minister of Malaysia."  
  
"I'm real sorry," he apologizes. "You're right, I've been on the shit again. I wasn't thinking straight."  
  
"It's not your fault," I say. "I'd be dissing the hell out of myself if I had the chance."  
  
"I wasn't dissing you, man," he says, sniffing. He must have a cold. I hope.  
  
"Don't worry about it."  
  
He looks pained. "I'm sorry, man, too late. I'm worried about you." I mull over it for a bit.  
  
"No you're not," I say.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're not worried about me. As a person. You're just worried about my brain. Because I know stuff. I've worked for Eggman," I say, patting the scar across my pectoral crest from training. Horrible day. But that's another story. "And I know how he thinks. You just want me because I make you look good on Letterman. Me, all pathetic. I'm just your freaking publicity stunt. Your comparison. No, you're not worried about me. You're worried about what'll happen to you if something happens to me, because then you might lose to Eggman. And if you win, and you make O'Brien, you might look bad for not coming to my aid when you needed to. You're not worried about me, you're worried about your fame. Your fucking reputation."  
  
His lip quivers. Maybe he knows I'm right. Maybe he thinks I'm totally wrong. It doesn't matter. At least I've gotten my point across-he doesn't come off as knowing or giving a damn what I go through.  
  
No. I won't put him through that. He's already maimed himself-I won't finish the job.  
  
"Thanks," I say appreciatively. The words taste bitter as they leave my mouth. But it's what he wants to hear.  
  
Incidentally, why the hell do I care what HE wants to hear?  
  
When I want to hear so many things. So many things that I'll never get a chance to hear for myself. Things like "I love you," or, "I want to be with you forever," or, "I'll never let you go," or "I can't live without you."  
  
Or, "You've earned a promotion."  
  
Or, "I can't thank you enough."  
  
Or, "It's a boy."  
  
That last one stings me the most. I'll never have the joy of kids. Therefore I don't have, and never will have an heir. So where's my current job going to go when I die? Which, at the moment, feels like it won't happen soon enough.  
  
He gives me a pat on the shoulder.  
  
"Remember, Knucklehead, you're my friend."  
  
Amy and Miles come out of the restaurant with to-go orders. They know I'm not going back inside for encores after that disgusting performance.  
  
"I guess we'll catch you later, then," Sonic says, patting me on the shoulder again and zipping up his sweater. "We'll see you later."  
  
"Yeah. Stay off the hweed," I say, puffing on my cigar.  
  
"Only when you stop sucking on ant poison and tar, buddy."  
  
"Touché."  
  
"Later, Knux," says Miles.  
  
"Bye, Knuckles," from Amy.  
  
Amy shoots me a smile. A faint, slight smile. The sort I like most. Not like they're doing it reluctantly. It's more the gushy eyed, loving smile that only curves your mouth up a little bit because you're so overcome by passion.  
  
No, I'm wrong. It's a reluctant smile. Obviously.  
  
At the time of writing I am 16 and still a virgin. Now I'm 18. Nothing has changed. And my birthday is next month.  
  
END OF CHAPTER ONE  
  
***  
  
That's the end of part one.. Read more I say! Or I shall summon the ghosts of a thousand fleas to infest your grandmother's chest hair!  
  
. or just leave a review and say you hate it, either works.  
  
D. Macintyre 


	2. Realization

Well, I'M surprised at the amount o successful feedback I've gotten…  
  
I know this is a bit premature. Considering most peoples' time zones I am pushing two days since the first one was posted (I live in New Zealand), but as of tomorrow I'm going to be away for five days, so I'd rather early than late.  
  
This is the next step in my fic—and be warned now, once you start reading this part of the fic, it begins to get a little weird. American McGee weird.  
  
Anyhow… here is Chapter two, I hope you like it. I know Steve did… (Steve has already read the whole thing, peeps, but don't ask him how it ends cuz he won't tell you… WILL you Steve?!)  
  
==---==--==---==  
  
CHAPTER TWO  
  
REALIZATION  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in.  
  
***  
  
"He's what?"  
  
"You heard me. He wants the Master Emerald for himself."  
  
I shouldn't be believing a word this fat bastard is saying. But I am, because I am gullible. I admit it. You lot probably figured it out a long time ago.  
  
"Why would he want THAT?"  
  
"So he won't have any use for you, of course!" Eggman laughs. "If he has the Master Emerald handy whenever he wants, he'll have no reason to use YOU any longer. He just keeps you around to get at that green hunk of rock! He doesn't care about you."  
  
Some of it sounds about right. But I just don't trust Eggman.  
  
"Okay, you're clean. Just get out of my sight."  
  
He laughs heartily.  
  
"Mr. Knuckles, you are delightful," he says, laughing like some Mafia idiot. "But you seem to be forgetting you are in MY room!"  
  
He's right. I followed him here. It's his hotel room.  
  
"My mistake…" How could I have forgotten? Oh well. I guess I'm having a blonde day. "I'll just get out of yours, then."  
  
"Wait. You still have some use," he says mockingly.  
  
"What do you want, Eggman?" I snap sharply, turning to him.  
  
The following is a rigorous test of strength, skill, speed, and intelligence. I come out on top. Easily, actually. But there's nasty, sticky blue shit all over my feet and fists. The bastard deserves it for that unfair shot he took at me on Angel Island. Unfair in that he didn't kill me when I had the chance. It's not nice to live with the fact that you lost to something so ugly and idiotic looking. He doesn't look very strong.  
  
"But… but he can withstand BULLETS!" Eggman splutters.  
  
"Well, maybe I'm a little stronger than a bullet," I say, advancing on him. This bastard obviously set me up about Sonic. Now I can take him out.  
  
"Hmm… Knuckles, before you kill me, could you please look at this little dot, here?" He holds up a small, pen-sized contraption. The glowing white dot seems to attract my eyes.  
  
I woke up what I think was several hours later in Eggman's hotel room. He was nowhere to be found.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt. Loud moaning.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
***  
  
The train pulls away from the platform. There are several relieved mothers and expectants in the window. They seem frightened of me, and glad to see me go. I can't completely blame them.  
  
"It's your cigarettes," says somebody nearby.  
  
I turn.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your cigarettes," he repeats. "Puts them off."  
  
I suddenly remember I've been smoking for the past hour. I lit a new one about twenty minutes ago. I've run through three. God, can I drag these things out. Sarcasm.  
  
Then I remember it's a non smoking train.  
  
Then I remember the argument I had with the steward about smoking them on board the transit.  
  
Then I remember how he left with a rather large bruise.  
  
Then I remember how long I'd be in jail for that.  
  
"Thanks," I say to the guy, who scurries off. Shortly I see a security guard from the train come near.  
  
"How much would it take to keep me out of a cell?" I ask. I have no cash. Why did I just offer a bribe?  
  
"We just want to apologize," he says, apparently not hearing me. "The steward admitted he used unnecessary force."  
  
I have no idea what he's on about.  
  
"Like I didn't?"  
  
He looks perplexed.  
  
"Sir, you were an absolute gentleman!" he insists. "If it were me I would have done far more than merely point out I was in the smoking section."  
  
Now I'M the one who's confused.  
  
"Wait, wait. There was a smoking section?"  
  
He looks perplexed again.  
  
"Of course, sir! You were in it. Don't you remember?"  
  
Now I remember something. It's the girl from my dream. The Aztec one. I'm arguing with her. She tries to take my cigs.  
  
I'm really screwed up today.  
  
"God," I say. "I'm just not working… Sorry. I've just been in a really nasty fight." No doubt he's suspecting a pub brawl.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Can I get you anything?"  
  
I see the expression on his face.  
  
"I took a metal blow to the head, man, I haven't been drinking."  
  
"You caught me, sir."  
  
"No, I'm fine, thanks anyway… I think it's a little late for aspirin, huh. That'll do."  
  
"As you wish, sir."  
  
He disappears into the sterile gray marble of the train station, swallowed up by the crowd.  
  
And suddenly I remembered removing someone's head for trying to fine me $2000 and a jail term.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt. Loud moaning.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
***  
  
We're at the burger shop again.  
  
Sonic and I are glowering at each other for half a second blocks and then looking away in disgust.  
  
Amy is sitting there sighing, trying to get us to make up.  
  
Miles is hammering away at a Game Boy.  
  
"An RPG does not require that much hammering, Tails."  
  
"It's Secret of Mana advance. You remember the old one, right?"  
  
"Stupid question."  
  
"Ahm. Sorry."  
  
"You two are like children," Amy says. "So you had a little tiff over Knuckles' job. It wasn't his fault."  
  
Sonic scoffs. "It was his fault, for being so—"  
  
"Damn gullible," I complete. His edge is quashed for now.  
  
"Then what are you two fighting about, if you agree?"  
  
Nobody answers. I break the silence.  
  
"He had to drive it home with that comment," I say.  
  
"What comment?"  
  
"You know." I explain the comment to him. It's best left to your imagination. He looks perplexed and angry.  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"Don't tell me that lie," I snap. "You did. You're just trying to weasel out of your responsibility. That's a first. Usually you're trying to weasel IN."  
  
He looks stunned.  
  
"Knuckles, I never said that!"  
  
"He didn't," Miles adds. He looks shocked at the accusation. "I was there. He didn't say it."  
  
I'm absolutely confused.  
  
"Tails, how can you say that? He even repeated it!"  
  
"Knuckles—"  
  
"I swear to god, man!" I shout, standing up.  
  
"Knuckles—"  
  
"Sonic, I swear to fucking God, you said that to me. It wasn't fair. Why are you two doing this?"  
  
They are silent. So is everyone else. I'm causing a scene.  
  
But I'm not going to leave. I'm not going to give them that satisfaction. I don't want to start a streak.  
  
I sit down slowly.  
  
"Look, Sonic, I'm not trying to accuse you, but I heard it with my own ears."  
  
"You know what, Knuckles?" he says to me sharply. "I seem to remember a more similar comment escaping YOUR lips."  
  
Oh, shit.  
  
"You've got to be kidding me."  
  
"Now you see what it's like," Amy whispers to herself.  
  
"Hey, shut up!" I protest. People are glancing my way again. I clutch my temples in frustration.  
  
"You said it to ME," Sonic says. The tables have turned.  
  
"He's right."  
  
"Good God… guys… help me out over here."  
  
Sonic is silent.  
  
"I'm not disagreeing with you. But I'm not agreeing. I've been sort of out of it lately. I had some problems at the train station too."  
  
"Nothing too loud, I hope?"  
  
"Was that really necessary?"  
  
He mulls over it for a second. "No. It wasn't."  
  
"See?"  
  
"I really think this is just one of those macho things. You two should just make up. There's nothing left to argue over."  
  
"You're right…"  
  
I say nothing.  
  
I bury my head in my arms.  
  
And cry.  
  
Nobody notices right away. But I'm crying my eyes out.  
  
I think it's finally happening.  
  
I'm going insane.  
  
***  
  
Well… that's a bitch.  
  
Anyway. For me it is now… 10:50 PM, Sunday night. The next one will be posted at somewhere between nine and ten on Friday. Keep yourself occupied until then. I'm sure you have better things to do.  
  
Until my twisted little mind decides,  
  
Tengu2  
  
(song from Carmen plays that I can't remember as credits roll by) 


	3. Development

Okay… this one's a little shorter than the others. Sorry. It'll keep you hungry people appetized, hopefully.  
  
I'm back early… the good lord has been repeating the same injury on my left wrist in an attempt to break it for about half a year now, on Monday he succeeded. Phaw. I'm home now due to today being the day of our 26 kilometre tramp, with forecast of heavy rain—i.e. cast falls off.  
  
Now I get to miss work, which means five days a week in the gym for leg and midsection work. It also means I'm a considerably slower typer, and therefore other chapters may not appear as soon as I'd hoped—I'm entirely redoing one scene and altering others. However I can now update more regularly, since I now have six more hours after school Friday to update with.  
  
Anyway, enjoy—as you already seem to be doing. I'm surprised.  
  
(cue old music and black and white projector)  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER THREE  
  
DEVELOPMENT  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into.  
  
***  
  
Well well well. Back in the burger joint. For another little meeting.  
  
The battle with Eggman is nearly over. A couple more days and we've got him.  
  
"I've got something to say," Miles announces rather timidly. We turn to him. It just makes him even more nervous.  
  
"Go on then, little buddy," Sonic requests. His eyes are bloodshot.  
  
"You've been on the hweeeed."  
  
"Shhh!"  
  
"I… I had the dream too. The same one as Knuckles."  
  
We are all shocked. All but me. I'm pleased as punch, kicking back into the chair and smiling to myself. Satisfaction at last. I'm not a complete maniac.  
  
"And… and she talked to me."  
  
Wait.  
  
"Talked to you?" I ask, leaning forward. "I had the dream but I didn't interact with anyone. I thought it was a past life thing."  
  
"Until a couple of seconds ago when you realized Tails had the same dream…"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"But, I don't think Knuckles is crazy now. I think he's totally clean. He's telling the truth about not getting stoned or anything."  
  
Right intention. Wrong choice of words.  
  
"Um… thanks… I think."  
  
Sonic is sort of relaxing into his chair. I notice his new brown jacket. I like mine more. He has a sort of flight jacket with the fur ruffle on the collar.  
  
I notice he's tensed up. It shows in the shoulders on those jackets.  
  
"Something to tell us, hmmm?" I ask, leaning forward. It's times like this I wish I had a large pair of breasts to make it all the more awkward. Have him stare and fumble on his mistake more.  
  
And that was just the worst thing I could possibly say to you, young reader, because I know you're probably no older than fifteen if you're reading this. Let's clean it up a bit.  
  
It's times like this I wish Amy would do the same thing to make it all the more awkward. Repeat previous sentences accordingly.  
  
Better?  
  
Better be.  
  
"I… I had it too."  
  
I don't believe it.  
  
I don't WANT to believe it.  
  
It's too good.  
  
And I'm on the brink of laughing my ass off.  
  
In happiness.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it.  
  
***  
  
I have my bag. I have my magazines, my food, everything. My new, warm jacket, which I thanked Amy for again.  
  
"I'll miss you," Amy says, giving me a peck on the cheek. Whoops and howls from Sonic and Miles.  
  
"Shut up, dumbass," I say jokingly. "It's more than you got."  
  
"Gutted!" Miles exclaims.  
  
"HE can have whatever he wants," Amy says, sidling up next to Sonic. Hopefully referring to him. Whoops and howls from Miles and I.  
  
"You are such a pain," Sonic says to her flatly, not even glancing at her. She looks kind of hurt. I see Sonic wink at me and bite his tongue afterwards. He has a plan. Let him work with it, he's saying. Funny, I genuinely thought he had no interest in her. Maybe he's planning to toss her over a cliff.  
  
Speaking of which.  
  
"I'll see you later, then," Miles says. We share our gang handshake.  
  
"Hopefully."  
  
Sonic approaches me.  
  
We stand there for a second.  
  
"If your lips do any kind of funny signal, you're going to leave in need of a new face."  
  
He laughs heartily.  
  
"I'm not that desperate yet," he says. "Or THAT desperate," he says, looking at Amy, who's still sort of depressed.  
  
"She's not taking it as a joke, man," I say. He turns.  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"She's not taking it as humor. You're really hurting her over there. Look."  
  
He turns. He notices how depressed she looks.  
  
"So I'll apologize later," wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more. "Leave it."  
  
"No," I say flatly after running through my options.  
  
He looks rather perplexed. Third.  
  
"I'm not getting you man, you're acting weird."  
  
"Well, get this, then."  
  
I grab him by the neck and drag him to the cliff. I knock Miles out of the way easily. Amy can only stand, stunned.  
  
"She doesn't deserve your shit," I say. "I can and will treat her right. She deserves my kind of love after all you've put her through."  
  
"Knuckles, you're going crazy, man!"  
  
"No, I'm NOT."  
  
I pick him up and end his pitiful, sardonic, limelight-hogging life by throwing him down the crevice into the sea below Angel Island. The end.  
  
Nope. Not quite.  
  
I am now standing at the altar of the Emerald, completely fixed and ready to drag me back up to Hell. At least for tonight I won't be so depressed. I did something today. Something great. I avenged a young girl.  
  
I look over and wave. To Miles. To Amy. To Sonic.  
  
And then I remember that we actually shook hands, exchanged a headbutt and I said my goodbyes, then left.  
  
And that Amy never gave me that kiss to begin with.  
  
Something is definitely wrong. This time I didn't take a blow to the head.  
  
***  
  
Well… not a masterpiece of a chapter three, but I'm working on it.  
  
I'm going to incorporate the acid idea, thank you ShadowCell. It'll add a more Alice-esque possibility to my pre-ending thought binge.  
  
Hang around few days and you'll get another little piece of work. Hopefully actually as good as you people are saying, but I suppose net reviewers don't bother worrying about feelings to be honest with something, huh? I wouldn't know, I never see quality in my own work.  
  
G' night, kiddies!  
  
(creepy old music slowly starts again) 


	4. Mission

Hmm… only ONE review? Feh.  
  
Anyhow, you people are probably reading this in the assumption that the update was appearing tonight—in fact it appeared about three days ago. Speaking of which I am shortening the time between updates from four days to three days—because this thing is damn long, and I don't want people to lose interest in Sonic or otherwise before I belt it all out.  
  
Anyway, thank you for your patience and sorry for the confusion—hey, now you get TWO chapters. Better than one—unless you're like that Blood guy :P  
  
  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER FOUR  
  
MISSION  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later.  
  
***  
  
The heavens have got to be kidding me.  
  
The whole WORLD has got to be kidding me.  
  
But it's happening.  
  
Again.  
  
The island is falling. Crashing down into the sea. And nearly breaking my leg again in the process.  
  
I'm ready to kill myself. I don't want to go through the pain of leaving the mainland again. It was too much fun last time. Of course now there's nowhere to jump—and I explained my difficulties with THAT issue earlier.  
  
If the Master Emerald is back in one piece, why is Angel Island still falling?  
  
Maybe these Chaos Emeralds… that I brought back with me… have something to do with what's happening.  
  
Hell, the Master Emerald probably fried my brain with radiation long ago. How could these emeralds make much of a difference?  
  
Maybe I'll go ask Sonic. He's the expert on shit like this. And it's an excuse to buy more cigarettes. Thank god for ciggies.  
  
Wait. What's that over there? It groans loudly. I go to investigate.  
  
Gasp.  
  
"Eggman!"  
  
Finally. Some worth. Some use in my life.  
  
I place my open palm on his head.  
  
"Eggman," I say nonchalantly. "Let's see if you live up to your title."  
  
"What… what is going on? Where am I?"  
  
"You are lying on Angel Island, failed in another of your pitiful attempts to steal my emerald. It's a shame, because I have six of the Chaos emeralds here too. So sad. You could've done it all at once. And now I'm going to crush your little eggshell head."  
  
"Chaos emeralds?! No! Wait!"  
  
"I may be gullible, but I'm not stupid!"  
  
"You don't understand! It's—"  
  
"I think I understand well enough. Goodbye forever, Eggman."  
  
And with that, I felt like the world was lifted off of my shoulders. With Eggman gone, I could die in peace. Not just from any kind of suicide. The whole world could rest easy with the knowledge that doctor Ivo Robotnik was dead. And the world was safe.  
  
Crunch.  
  
There is no scream. Just a horrible, juicy, lifting crrrrunch splat sound. Eggman brains all over my hand.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
***  
  
"Knuckles… Knuckles, wake up!"  
  
God. Not this tired old cliché.  
  
"Knuckles… come on, man."  
  
The age-old satire of someone waking up from a coma to someone repeating his name. Then he gets filled in on everything and what has been happening and where he is and so forth.  
  
I'm not even going to bow to that one. I'm not going to dignify this with an answer. I'll just lie here and look dead.  
  
"Knuckles… get up, dude, you're scaring me. Eggman's here."  
  
Yes, and his head a is a splattered, gelatinous mass of crunched bone and 300 IQ brain, I'm not even sure how you still recognize him. Probably that fat frame and over-fashionable dress sense. Always several seasons ahead of the current style.  
  
"Come on, Knuckles. You're my friend. Wake up."  
  
No. Not until you walk away and I follow you. I'm not answering to this pitiful setup.  
  
Suddenly two fingers press against my palm. Wait, let me think… no. This part's new. Normally they wake up.  
  
"Not necessary," I inform him, getting up briskly and brushing myself off. I wish I had something to adjust and drive the point home—which is that I've been alive and well for about an hour. I'm even surprised at my own ability to get up so easily.  
  
Then I get tired again. It was bound to happen. Miles is nearby and supports me.  
  
"Knuckles, what happened here? Did you and Eggman have a fight, or what?"  
  
I turn to look at Eggman. His head is still a disgusting, splattered mess of shattered bone and squished brain.  
  
I have ended the terror. I chuckle to myself. No use for bragging now.  
  
"Yeah… just a little tiff."  
  
"Knuckles… we were worried about you."  
  
There's that word again.  
  
"Thanks." I scowl privately. Why does he still worry? Eggman's gone, and I finished him off. There's no use for ME anymore, now, is there?  
  
Perhaps I've been wrong about him?  
  
Who knows.  
  
Then I remember what happened.  
  
"Sonic… It was Chaos," I say.  
  
He turns to me from Eggman and gasps.  
  
"Not… Chaos is still alive?!"  
  
"And still a strong, fearsome beast. He got six of my Chaos emeralds…"  
  
Sonic and Miles are stunned.  
  
"Then, that means…" Miles splutters.  
  
"That he's just as strong as before, and smarter now too!"  
  
"Sonic, we HAVE to find that last emerald before it's too late! If we don't, then we're all—"  
  
"Thoroughly fucked."  
  
That's it. Flat. Subtle. True.  
  
I nod in dismal agreement. Thoroughly FUCKED. I couldn't have said it better myself.  
  
Eggman groans… a surprise within itself.  
  
"Argh! He's not going to get away with this, the bastard!"  
  
He turns to Sonic. I cringe. A huge, ripped mess of head and bone with no mouth is speaking to Sonic.  
  
"Sonic, I'm going after him. Do what you will, but the final blow is MINE!"  
  
They glare at each other. Old rivals again. I wish I could see this clearly.  
  
"Fine, Eggman," he says. "If that's the way you want it, let's have a contest. If I finish off Chaos, you have to leave, and never bother this world again."  
  
"And if *I* win," Eggman adds, "You must never interfere with my ingenius plots again."  
  
Sonic reluctantly agrees. This was his idea.  
  
"All right. Agreed."  
  
"Shake."  
  
Both men shake hands, trying to crush each other's hand.  
  
"I'm not sure I can promise that, Eggman," I say. He turns to me.  
  
"This isn't YOUR bet."  
  
"True. But if Sonic loses… you've still got to deal with ME."  
  
"And me," Miles adds menacingly. He can't believe Sonic, his mentor and best friend, has given in to such a cheap deal. He must be pretty fucking full of himself.  
  
Eggman scoffs. It looks disgusting.  
  
"Without him, you two are nothing," he says, turning and leaving.  
  
Wrong. Without Sonic, I crushed in your fat fucking head.  
  
I button up my black coat and zip up the collar.  
  
"Come on, boys, we've got a job to do."  
  
"That was really cheesy, Knux."  
  
"…Sorry."  
  
***  
  
Indeed it was. I hate that line.  
  
Anyhow… remember, three days now, not four between updates. Feh, you care.  
  
Thank you for putting up with this fic for so long, plenty more to go. Plentiful plenty. Hope you're enjoying it so far, I know I'm liking the feedback I'm getting.  
  
Until my perverted little mind decides,  
  
Tengu2  
  
(Rap Remix plays (don't ask)) 


	5. Football talk

***  
  
CHAPTER FIVE  
  
FOOTBALL TALK  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
***  
  
"Well, I think we definitely made Leno tonight!"  
  
We are all laughing and cheering, watching our mighty hero Sonic battle the onslaught of power from Perfect Chaos. I think I've seen this on Dragon Ball Z sometime. Sonic has turned yellow, been surrounded by a shimmering aura, and is now flying at the speed of light in a constant attack against the aggressor.  
  
Eggman has come and gone. The Egg Carrier II has been destroyed in a single shot, and Eggman's headless body went flying through the air.  
  
"Tails, please tell me something," I say.  
  
"Yeah, Knux?"  
  
"When… oh, never mind."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Wow, Sonic is so amazing!" Amy exclaims, swooning with that little bird flitting over her head. "He's such a dream…"  
  
"She's such a twerp sometimes," Miles spits, scowling.  
  
"Look who's talking," I say, ruffling his hair. I guess we can safely say that Sonic's going to win. Conversation is fine. It's like the football game now.  
  
"So how the frick are you, man?" I'm trying to be a friend to him. I don't want to swear to the young one. Because who knows—Sonic may not be around to see the end of this fight. And if he isn't, we're all—  
  
"Thoroughly fucked," his voice plays back in my mind.  
  
"I'm okay, I guess," Miles says kind of dully.  
  
"How's school?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Doing well?"  
  
He turns to me, turns away, and laughs. I realize what a stupid question it was. This kid makes airplanes. He shouldn't even BE in school.  
  
"Do you even GO to school?" I say.  
  
"Kind of," he replies. "I go when we've got time off."  
  
"That sucks."  
  
"Reasonably."  
  
"Got any good friends?"  
  
He's thinking. I can tell he's thinking about someone in particular.  
  
Hmmm. Someone…  
  
"It's a girl, isn't it?" I ask, leaning over to him.  
  
"Yeah," he blurts out. He immediately regrets it, and fumbles at the awkward smile I give him.  
  
"Oooh. What's her name?"  
  
"Um… Shamara."  
  
Shamara. Okay. Fair enough.  
  
"How old is she?"  
  
"She's…. going on thirteen now, I think."  
  
"And you're what, eleven?"  
  
"Yeah…"  
  
"And does she like younger guys?"  
  
"Um… I don't know."  
  
We watch Sonic deliver another heavy blow to Chaos' brain and cheer. It's just like a baseball game. Me, sitting here with Miles, chatting like old friends. I wish I could do this more often. Maybe if I did I wouldn't be going insane.  
  
I pause for a little bit.  
  
"Does she know you?"  
  
"Yeah. Kind of."  
  
"She ever talk to you?"  
  
"We talk once in a while," he says. "More often lately. She has a crush on my best friend, though."  
  
"Ouch, gutted! Are you sure?"  
  
"Yeah… I'm sure."  
  
What a bummer.  
  
"What a bummer," I say, watching the fight again.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Then it dawns on me.  
  
Miles' best friend is Sonic.  
  
'Shamara' is going on thirteen.  
  
She has a crush on Sonic and she's thirteen.  
  
"What's her favorite color?" I ask.  
  
"Red."  
  
What an observational kid. I complete the puzzle.  
  
I lean in very close to him.  
  
"You've got a crush on Amy, haven't you?"  
  
He turns and looks at her for a moment. She's still leaning against the fence of the demolished road, her arms resting on her hands. The bird lands on her head. It falls asleep.  
  
He turns back to me and hangs his head out toward the fight.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Ha.  
  
Ha ha.  
  
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.  
  
"Well, if you want to get in on her, maybe you'd like me to help? Of course, I've just been spending my whole life up on that island, so what would I know about talking to girls?"  
  
What indeed. When you spend that long alone, you begin to stop distinguishing men from women, because you no neither is going to mean anything to you in the end. Not in any physical form. Therefore I never have to deal with embarrassment.  
  
"I dunno."  
  
He really doesn't. So I help.  
  
I walk over to Amy.  
  
"Having fun?"  
  
She lets out a loud sigh.  
  
"Yeaaah," she says in a slow, romantic drawl. She's swooning again.  
  
I open my mouth to bring it up.  
  
Then suddenly it happens. Sonic. He drowns. He's stuck inside Chaos' stomach area, drowning. He dies. Right there. He turns blue again and dies.  
  
"NOOOOOO!" I scream out loud. I haven't a clue why. I leap out and glide to the area. The Emeralds are flying out of him now. I can catch them and do the same thing he did. I can smack the shit out of this big, aquatic nothing.  
  
I leap inside of its head and punch hard. Into its brain. It splatters.  
  
Then it all disappears. Sonic's gone. Chaos is gone. Sonic is back on the road works, and Miles is flying out to get me.  
  
"What are you so damn excited about?" he snaps. "Sonic won. We live for another day. You don't need to get all emotional over Chaos just because he looks cool."  
  
"What… what…"  
  
It didn't happen.  
  
It's getting worse.  
  
Not only is this pain of always being alone beginning to make me see things I don't (or sometimes do) want to see. Now it's getting me to DO things, that I don't want to do. Or maybe I would.  
  
But at any rate, it's getting worse.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
***  
  
Smarmy. One might say that's the blue man in a nutshell.  
  
"You're never going to guess who called me yesterday."  
  
From that, I would say something more along the lines of arrogant and assuming.  
  
We're in the new Starbucks in Station Square. Sonic called me over for another social meeting. I told him that sorry, not to be rude but I was kind of sick of burgers and your favorite soda. Fair enough, he said, and we planned for a cappuccino.  
  
It's about two years after the whole ARK incident. I never liked that Shadow guy. But, of course, Sonic nearly cried. I'm nearly nineteen, nothing has changed, I'm still a virgin. And I still live in the sky. But now I have found a way to make social calls down below when it really counts. Sonic's new ability to use Chaos Control. Normally he picks me up spontaneously, which leaves me at a bit of a loss. I wish I had a cellular. But he's teaching me to use it too.  
  
"No, you're right. I won't." You know I don't have a phone, idiot.  
  
Sonic is smirking widely. Amy and Miles are somewhere else. I guess he wanted to talk privately.  
  
"Good. Because I want to shock the shit out of you."  
  
No surprise there.  
  
I'm sipping away at a vanilla frappucino. One of my favorites. Normally I'm an iced mocha man—I got sick of having to season. What the hell am I on about? I've never been to Starbucks. I just know because I had two earlier. I promised Sonic I'd pay him back somehow. Somehow.  
  
"Go on then."  
  
"Well, it's a woman…"  
  
Hmm. That narrows the list down quite a bit.  
  
"And she seemed to express an interest in seeing you… by saying you stink and she never wants to see you again. I see through that."  
  
So do I.  
  
Then it dawns on me.  
  
"Wait… is this someone rather furry, with nice big ears and wings? And does she wear a heart shaped leotard and tight black pants?"  
  
"I don't know if she still does."  
  
I'm too stunned to believe it.  
  
The one girl. HER.  
  
"R…"  
  
"Spit it out, Knucklebones."  
  
"Rouge?"  
  
He nods slowly. I don't want to jump up and down and have a fit. Although I'd love to. I haven't seen Rouge for a couple years now. And she's pretty. Plus she's got nice tits.  
  
Did I just say that?  
  
"She wants to hook up with us for a movie."  
  
When the prospect of seeing her again flows into my mind, I begin to remember the other things. How we met. How we fought. How we realized how we felt about each other. And how she showed me. Then betrayed me.  
  
I still have the scars.  
  
We met. She glided onto the island one day, dressed in that sassy outfit of hers.  
  
"I suppose you want the emerald."  
  
"As a matter of fact, I do." She smiled wickedly, then frowned.  
  
"I thought so."  
  
"And I suppose you're the guardian?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, I am."  
  
"I thought so. What passes for a guardian nowadays?"  
  
I remember berating myself later for trying to flirt with her. We got into an argument.  
  
"Uurgh! You just don't know WHEN to give up, do you?!"  
  
Eggman appeared. It took me a few minutes to focus my mind enough to restore his regular head. He wanted the emerald.  
  
"No! Look what you've done to MY emerald!"  
  
I remember the entire course of events that followed. How I spent hours, days, weeks trying to find the pieces of the emerald. Our escapades through the desert, and how Amy showed us how to get water out of a cactus. I began hallucinating even more. When we look back on it now, it's funny—I tried to kiss a rattlesnake. I never told them who I thought it had been.  
  
Then when I finally matched up to her again in the meteor herd. We had a long, hard fight.  
  
"Well, well, treasure hunter, long time no see. Did you find MY emeralds?"  
  
I told her talking to her was a waste of time. I was lying.  
  
At the end of the fight, I saved her life.  
  
"Get your hands off me!" she said.  
  
"You weren't trying to save me. You just wanted to hold my hand, didn't you? You're such a creep!" she said.  
  
"Here, if that's all you care about, take them. Besides, they stink, just like echidnas do," she said.  
  
"I'm sorry… if I hurt you." That last one was from me.  
  
I remember how I felt after that fight. Like I could go on living. Like there was something to live for. Maybe she didn't show it through her words. But the way our eyes locked when I pulled her up from her fall, I could tell, there was more to it than meets the eye. Pardon my slight contradiction.  
  
Finally, we got to witness not one, but TWO almighty spine-backed forces battling it out against the Final Hazard, as we later nicknamed it. I got to have another baseball game chat with Miles. It was fun.  
  
After they whooped large portions of ass—and I tried to pull the airlock switch in an insane hallucination—I got to talk with Rouge again.  
  
"That sounds like a really horrible way to live," she said.  
  
"Can't be as horrible as having to hunt down gems for a living."  
  
"Was that an insult?"  
  
"Absolutely not. It was compassion."  
  
"Fair enough, Knuckles, fair enough."  
  
I remember trying to find out if I was mistaken. She had referred to me by name.  
  
"No, you're not hallucinating again. As long as you promise to call me Rouge, and not bat girl."  
  
"Okay, Rouge. Now YOU stop calling me treasure hunter."  
  
"Okay."  
  
We had a nice talk. The usual small talk stuff. Nothing worth writing. Then I got into personal matters.  
  
"Rouge…"  
  
"Yes, Knuckles?"  
  
"I just want to say something…"  
  
"That depends what it is."  
  
"Nothing lecherous… I just want to say that I've noticed, ever since I met you, my life has been a lot less messed up… I mean, I'm not getting these crazy hallucinations as much—"  
  
"Except when it counts," she laughs.  
  
"Can I finish being thankful, here?"  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"I'm not getting those crazy visions as much… and… and… I don't know. But I just feel a lot better. Like my life means something." I turn and look directly at her. She does the same. "Like… like someone appreciates me." God, I know how creepy and pick up line I sounded. But I couldn't help it. I don't or didn't know any other lines.  
  
She smiled a pleased half-grin. The type I mentioned about Amy earlier.  
  
My favorite.  
  
"I mean, you're not the silly femme fatale ripoff I thought that you were… and… and you remember when I pulled you out of that lava pit fall?"  
  
"Oh, no, of course not. I'd never remember that."  
  
"Well… the way our eyes met, then, it was like… like…"  
  
"Like we were falling in love?"  
  
I looked up from the floor. We gazed at each other again.  
  
Our eyes locked. Next came the mouths. Then came the tongues. A long, hard kiss.  
  
Then the sharp, piercing double pains.  
  
I drew back in a (masculine) scream. Nobody else was in the room. She had waited for this.  
  
I wiped the left side of my lip. And checked myself in the reflection.  
  
I had two circular bite marks on the side of my mouth. Where she had kissed me. And bitten me. Like the slimy little vampire she is. Or was. I don't know yet.  
  
I turned to her in shock, wiping the wounds again. She licked her lips.  
  
"You… you fucking bitch!"  
  
"Shut the hell up, you lecherous bastard," she snapped, slapping me. Now I was holding two wounds. "I want nothing to do with you and your dismal little island life. I know why you want me. It's just because you're sick of masturbating. You don't want me, you want my body!"  
  
I frowned, but didn't let her see. She was half right. But that would develop in her favor.  
  
It's funny how such a stereotypical line can actually fit a real situation.  
  
She threw a handful of coins at me. They all hit me in the head.  
  
"Here, go buy something inflatable," she snapped fiercely, and stormed out of the room.  
  
I slumped into the floor. I was bitten, slapped, pelted with coins, and rejected. I was alone, in a large room, staring out into space.  
  
I wanted to die.  
  
I felt like I already had.  
  
I am suddenly returned to the present.  
  
I'm rubbing the pink marks around my mouth. People think I have herpes. I owe it to her.  
  
"She won't still be like that, Knux," Sonic reassures me. "I talked to her on the phone, remember? She sounds like she's really changed."  
  
"I'm sure you can tell, Sonic," I say sarcastically. I try not to sound so, however. Sounding sarcastic in this sentence just deepens the offensive effect.  
  
He seems hurt.  
  
"Sorry," he says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sorry. I didn't know you'd still feel that way after two years…"  
  
He has a point.  
  
I feel the scars on my face.  
  
"She bit me," I say.  
  
"She was a g-police."  
  
"I look like I have herpes," I say.  
  
"Not to her."  
  
I'm silent.  
  
Silence.  
  
Silence.  
  
Silence.  
  
S  
  
I  
  
L  
  
E  
  
N  
  
C  
  
E.  
  
"So when do we see her then?"  
  
Sonic smiles.  
  
"I'd hoped you'd ask that."  
  
It turns out the answer was eight pm that night.  
  
Stupid bastard. What if I had said no?  
  
Easy. They'd have just gone to the movie without me.  
  
"Check, please."  
  
Stupid thing to say in a Starbucks. 


	6. A definite turn for the worse

***

CHAPTER SIX

A DEFINITE TURN FOR THE WORSE

***

In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.

More.

More.

God, I am loving this.

Now I see why it's such a big deal.

And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.

  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.

This is horrible. Despicable.

But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.

I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.

And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.

It's criminal.

It's evil.

And I love it.

How long can it go?

All night?

By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…

***

We're waiting in the theatre lobby.

I'm dressed in my black trench, along with some new clothes I found. Found, not bought.

"I need a job," I say to Sonic.

"Are you worried about us buying you stuff all the time?"

Ouch. Speared.

"Yes. Exactly."

He smiles.

"Don't be, man. I mean, where are you going to get the money? It's no skin off our noses. Chipping in for a friend."

"Yeah… thanks…" My stomach hurts. I wish I could pay them back.

"Hey, guys!" Miles comes dashing up, slapping Sonic a low five and instigating the gang-shake with me. I try to make it short. I'm too anxious.

"Put that shit away, man, you'll scare her," Sonic says, slapping a cigarette out of my hand.

"What, you think she doesn't smoke?"

"I'm sure she doesn't. Not tonight at any rate."

Sigh. He's right. But I just don't feel very good.

"Sigh…"

"What?"

"I said SIGH, all right?"

"Weird."

"It's called expression of emotion, blue man. It's like saying scowl or scoff."

"Are you so cold and frozen that you can't even make your own expressions now?"

"I suppose so."

"Frigid bastard."

No comment.

Amy catches up to us. Prim, productive little Amy. 

"Hi guys," she says briskly. "Hiyee, Sonic," she says, assuming her little cutesy pose. She's fourteen now, and still acts like a little child.

"What ARE you doing here?" Sonic asks.

"But—"

"No, I didn't invite you, what makes you say that?"

She looks hurt.

"Naw, just kidding. Nice to see you, Amy," he says, taking her under his arm and giving her a peck on the cheek. She blushes like a rose. No pun intended.

"Don't make the same mistake I did," I say to both of them, making another attempt to light a cigarette. The nicotine flows into my body like the breath of life. I put out the match. I think I look cooler using matches than a lighter.

"You know, it's probably all the DDT in that shit that's making you go crazy."

"Shut up. There's no DDT in MY ciggies."

  
"Yahum, along with rocket fuel, white ant poison, tar, carbon monoxide, oven cleaner…"

"Shut the hell up, man, you're the one smoking the illegal stuff."

"Yes, well, at least mine is all natural herbal ingredients," he says, trying to sound sophisticated in case someone is listening and might not take it as a joke. I glance at him and laugh with the cig in the side of my mouth.

"Yeah right."

I watch the crowd coming up the stairs. I see lots of people, a few furries, but no Rouge.

Suddenly I see a sight. A beautiful, voluptuous, young bat woman coming up the stairs. She's dressed in a tight pink tube top and black leather pants. Her midsection shows as she wags along on her black high heeled shoes, carting a black purse on her arm. Her long hair is tied back into braided dreadlocks, her ears pushed down and back; her wings are closed.

It couldn't be… could it?

Of course, the second I say that means that it IS going to be her, so I should've shut my mouth rather than jinx it.

Then again, she is pretty cute…

She walks right past us.

"Hey, Rouge," Sonic says.

She walks right on by.

"Rouge! Wait up!"

We watch him dash up and tap her on the shoulder. She turns around and looks perplexed. They are talking about something.

"Sorry…" I can make out from over here. "I thought you were someone else."

He heads back over to us.

"Wasn't her, obviously," Sonic says, grumbling. I nod.

Amy starts humming Usher. Miles sings. They make a good sound together, come to think of it.

"You remind me of a girl—"

"Shut up," Sonic grumbles. Miles laughs.

We wait a little longer.

Then I see the real thing. This time it's definitely her.

It's Rouge. She's got a tight blue tank top under a black vest, with black jeans and white sneakers. She's also carrying a purse, but it's pink. Her wings show quite clearly, as always. Her face is beautiful, as always. Her body is luscious and makes heads turn, as always. And her breasts are flaunted under a too-tight top, as always. I can tell because I even noticed. Wait. Aren't I supposed to be the lovable pervert?

I forgot. That's Miles' job.

"Sonic?" She says, approaching the blue man with her hand outstretched. He's still in that brown jacket of his.

"Um… Yeah," he says, holding out his hand to her. She takes it with her outstretched hand, but instead of shaking it, she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek.

"It's been a while," she says, releasing his hand and looking him up and down. He cocks an eyebrow.

"There's a cost," he says, noticing her eyes darting around him.

"Which would be?"

"Eye for an eye."

I'm ready to laugh.

"You might become men, but you always stay boys. Fine, then, if you must."

She shuts her eyes and frowns as Sonic looks her up and down in amazement, as if he is about to zap her with a laser or something. I look her up and down in disgusted—yet longing—awe. (Any girl's good enough.) Miles looks her up and down, speechless. Amy takes one look at Rouge's chest and grunts in jealousy.

"You're still my best girl," Sonic plays with her. She smiles. But I know he doesn't mean it. He'd much rather have his hand on Rouge's tight ass than Amy's hunched little shoulder.

"Done yet?" She asks, a little taller than Sonic. I wonder how that happened—but then, I'm a little taller than Sonic. So… doesn't matter.

"Hey! Tails!" she exclaims, looking at him in awe. 

"Um… Hi, miss Rouge…"

"Don't shit your pants, Tails," Sonic jokes at him.

"Don't glue your boxers, Tails," Amy adds.

"Shut up."

"Good Jesus, you grew. You were like… this tall," she puts her hand down by his knees.

"You're sad to me," he says. We chuckle. Except for me.

"Don't sweat it, kid… you're still cute," she says, ruffling his hair.

"Well, seeing as you're not my mom or Amy, I suppose that counts."

"Oh, good." We laugh. Except for me.

"Amy!" she looks surprised. "You grew too!"

"Thank you, Rouge," she says reluctantly. She glances at Rouge's chest for a moment, then hangs her head toward her own.

"You're… hmmm, what are you now, a D cup?" Rouge asks, trying to drop a compliment. Amy blushes again as we laugh. Except for me.

"Well then… Are we going in?" she asks. The others are quiet for a second. She looks around.

"Who's this bum?" she asks, not knowing me or if I'm with their group. "Is he with us?"

"Only slightly," Sonic grumbles, half to himself. "Yeah."

"You've been all hunched over like that for the last few minutes. Come on, let's see what you look like."

I try to deepen or fog my voice.

"No thanks," I say, sounding a little unlike myself. I grimace.

"Come on. I bet you're real cute!"

"I don't know about that…"

"Turn around, come on. Didn't your mother ever teach you? I'm just a GIRL, I'm not going to bite you."

"That's what I thought last time I saw you," I snap. I immediately regret it. I can feel her face going from one kind of stunned to another as I turn around.

First thing she sees are my red dreadlocks. Then the way my face curves forward. And near the base of that, the two ugly marks that she knows SHE gave me.

"Kn… Knuckles."

I am silent. The others back off for a moment. We have issues to work out. But I don't want this to work out like some stupid drama.

You know the drill. Suddenly we kiss, or take each other in each other's arms and hug and cry for a bit. The guy never cries, and the girl says how sorry she is, and how much she wishes she hadn't done such and such, and the guy agrees et cetera et cetera.

So I don't. When she leans into me I turn away and continue to smoke.

"Knuckles," she says, hanging on to my shoulder as the others go to buy the tickets. "I… I shouldn't have, I was young and stupid…"

Ooh, a whole two years. Really freaking young, huh.

"Rouge," I bark at a low volume. She is surprised. I turn to face her with the cigarette still in my mouth. "Don't cause a scene. Especially a cheesy soap opera scene. Please, just say 'nice to see you again' or something along those lines, and be done with it."

She quivers. "Knuckles, if you want, I'll make up for—"

"I don't want another damned kiss," I snap, knowing full well where she's going. "My personal life is already a living Hell, no, a fucking HELLHOLE. I refuse to make my social life a picture perfect reproduction of cheesy soaps and love stories of the twentieth century. It's not my style."

It was a little over the top. But it got the point across—that I no longer trust her. Or did to begin with.

She quivers more. I turn fully to face her.

"Nice to see you again, Rouge," I say, leaning as fiercely as I can to remind her that she is not off the hook yet.

"Ni… Nice to see you again, too, Knuckles."

I am satisfied. Let's leave it at that.

Come on. Leave it.

Leave it.

It. Leave it. Leave…

"You really want a hug, don't you?" I feel like laughing. Instead I just grin sardonically.

"Yes," she says, looking ready to sob. I open my arms to her. She practically heaves herself into them, throwing her arms around me and looking as if she is about to cry. She kisses me on the cheek and resumes her bawling.

Hell, I tried. At least it'll only happen once. And I got a little affection out of it.

So why am I so unhappy?

Wait. Am I unhappy? Am I happy? I can't tell.

And Rouge is stripping.

God, help me.

***

In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.

More.

More.

God, I am loving this.

Now I see why it's such a big deal.

And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.

  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.

This is horrible. Despicable.

But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.

I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.

And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.

It's criminal.

It's evil.

And I love it.

How long can it go?

All night?

By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…

Well, I'll tell you…

***

"Are we the only ones in the theatre, or what?"

We've walked into the movie. The previews are starting, and we're the only ones here.

"Do we stretch out?"

"Naw, the usher'll get us. We have allocated seats…"

"Sigh."

"Frigid bastard."

I look around. Nobody. Not a soul.

Suddenly it is full. With skeletons.

"Reality," I think to myself. The skeletons slowly fade away. I seem to be in reasonable control.

I check my ticket.

"G-12," I say. I find a seat about halfway across the theatre from the screen. Everybody else is still up top, waiting to see if anyone else shows.

"I guess we're all, then," Sonic says, reading out "G-13," and propping himself down to my left.

"Let's see… G-15…" Miles comes over and sits two seats over from Sonic.

"Yay, G-14!" Amy exclaims, eagerly sitting down next to Sonic. I should've suspected.

"Aw, man," Sonic grumbles. Amy drapes over him. He pushes her off.

"Hmm… G-11."

Rouge comes down the aisle…

And sits next to me.

I grunt, rather disappointed.

"I don't like it any more than you, treasure hunter."

"I thought you promised not to call me that."

She is silent. She has no comebacks.

"How's the movie?" Sonic asks me half an hour later.

"I don't know. I was asleep too."

Amy won the bet, so she picked the movie. It's a girl's movie. Very sappy, very dramatic—Boooooring.

I hear Rouge yawn.

"I hear you."

"Sorry," she says. She just shuts her mouth.

I frown.

"No, I mean, I agree. Yawn."

There's a short pause.

"Oh."

Awkward. For her.

Ten minutes later, she droops onto my shoulder. I'm surprised.

"Mmm… Sleepy…"

"Me too," I whisper to her. "Boring as hell, huh?"

"Mmhmm."

One of her hands grabs at my right arm, resting on it. I lift my arm up and wrap it around her shoulder. Keep her warm. Or something.

Obviously warmth is not what I'm focusing on here.

I use my other arm to lift up the cupholder-armrest thing between us, for more comfort. She snuggles up against me.

"I'm so happy to see you again."

  
I am silent.

"Nice to see you again too." I guess.

She smiles.

She nestles up closer.

In a complete surprise move.

She kisses me.

I kiss her back. No, not the body part.

Nobody notices. We continue.

I kiss her.

I run my tongue inside her mouth, brushing against her teeth and pushing against the inside of her cheek.

  
She kisses me.

She wrestles her luscious, juicy tongue against the back of my throat, under my own tongue, and against the roof of my mouth.

It feels so good. I've never done this before. But somehow I know what I'm doing.

She undoes the front of my jacket.

She unzips the collar, unbuttons the chest, and loosens every last fastening until it lies open.

We still haven't broken contact. She is running her hand against my chest.

I bring her closer.

She pushes her chest against me. Around my shoulders, on my forearms, against me everywhere. I feel myself growing.

Her hand slides down my front. She grabs hold of my penis, dick, cock, meat, weapon, tool, gun, shaft, rod, wiener, willy, pecker, private part. Whichever metaphor you feel like using.

She rubs my metaphor a few times. Pressing her breasts, mammaries, chest, boobs, tits, melons, assets, weapons, headlights, jugs, against my stomach as she moves lower. Whichever synonym you feel like using. I'm still trying to kiss her, but she's gone too low. I put my hand on her head and ruffle it instead.

She's unzipped me.

She's unbuttoned the second layer.

She pulls it out while it hardens.

Her mouth closes around it.

I've heard of going down on someone in a movie theatre, but I didn't believe people were bold enough to do it. Now I know better.

It goes on for maybe ten minutes or so. Nobody has protested yet.

She moves higher on my body.

She pulls up her shirt. She thrusts her chest into my face.

I get the message quickly enough. I lick. I suck. Her nipples become hard.

She starts rubbing herself against my metaphor. Pleasure builds.

She senses it.

Promptly, she undoes the front of her skirt and pulls it down.

Then she lowers her undergarments. Oh, fine, panties. Take the class out of everything, why don't you?

Granted, class is probably the least of my worries at the moment. If I were going to be worrying about etiquette, I wouldn't be going in for it.

Final lap. Last straightaway before the finish line. Or checkpoint, if you want a more accurate analogy. Loss of virginity. In reach.

The tip touches the lips of her vulva, pussy, twat, opening, mound, beaver, love box, love HOLE, whatever euphemism you feel is most appropriate.

Then I thrust. There is a loud moan of pleasure, and nearly a cry of triumph from me.

It stops me soon enough.

There is a voice, out of the blue.

"Amy… is that yours?"

"No," Amy's voice says. Her head tilts down and looks to what Sonic is talking about. She gasps.

"E…eeww…" she is disgusted. Revolted. Repelled.

I wake up and return to reality.

I still have an erection, boner, stiffy, hard-on, full shinai. Whichever.

Oh, hell no. It was another dream. Another goddamn hallucination.

Now I'm not only seeing and doing things—I'm FEELING them too. This is getting out of hand.

There is good news and bad news.

"Knuckles… that's gross!"

Good news.

I did nothing. I maybe lulled into a dreamlike state and my head may have tilted back or so. Maybe I got hard. But my jacket is still done up, my pants are still on, and I would've looked like I was sleeping.

"Knuckles… Man. You've got five seconds to explain in more than two words. I'm fucking serious."

Bad news.

I felt something. Rouge is still to my right, hasn't moved since her head fell over onto my shoulder. We never kissed. 

We never fucked. 

We never did anything. 

We just slept. Amy and Miles seem to be the only ones interested in the movie.

But now I'm wide awake.

And my hand is still on Sonic's metaphor.

***

Would you people stop laughing at that part?! It was supposed to feel horrifying, and embarrassing, and 'Oh shit' like, not humorous for butt's sake!


	7. Reunion

Hallo.  
  
Major message at the bottom… READ! READ I SAY!  
  
(Rap Remix (again, don't ask) plays quietly as fic fades into view)  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER SEVEN  
  
REUNION  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
***  
  
"No," the simple, blunt answer.  
  
"But—"  
  
"No."  
  
"I—"  
  
"No."  
  
"Sonic…!"  
  
"NO."  
  
Outside the movie theatre. There's like, an hour left to go. At least I'm getting out of the movie.  
  
"And with Tails and Amy in the immediate area, Knuckles. I'm disappointed in you."  
  
"You've got to be kidding me," I say. "Disappointed? For what? You're not my father."  
  
"No, but I am your cash source," he retorts.  
  
And he's right. I can't come back to that.  
  
"I'm leaving, Knuckles," he says. "Tell the others I got bored. But don't ever bug me again. And stay away from Tails. I don't want you influencing him."  
  
"Sonic, you know what's been happening to me lately."  
  
"I don't care," he snaps. I'm surprised.  
  
"But—"  
  
"Knuckles, you don't care what I do. You don't care about me, as a friend. You're just trying to save face so you can get more little luxuries. You just want my money."  
  
I'm stunned.  
  
"I'm running out, Knux. I can't be paying for your visits all the time. I'm running low. And God, I know how gay I sound, but I don't ever want you bugging me again. I don't want you extorting any more of my hard-earned cash."  
  
I want to say something. Anything.  
  
"Now wait a second."  
  
"Hold on, that's not fair."  
  
"You know what I've been going through lately."  
  
"I don't need your filthy green anyway."  
  
"You don't even have a job."  
  
"Good riddance."  
  
"Fuck you, you stubborn jackass."  
  
But I can't say a thing.  
  
"You just want my cash."  
  
I don't believe it.  
  
"Leave me alone."  
  
Stunned.  
  
This is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to say to him. The same kind of speech.  
  
What the hell is wrong with him?  
  
He has no right to say any of this shit. The hypocrite.  
  
I am ready to explode.  
  
"Shut… up!"  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Shut the hell UP, you damn hypocrite!"  
  
He is silent.  
  
"You don't care about ME, either," I say. We're drawing a fucking crowd, now. Why is it people always stare at people who are fighting. It's like some primal urge. And now we look like gay lovers having a spat. The human mind also likes to trace any kind of relationship between two people as a sexual one, same or differing sex. I find it quite annoying.  
  
"You realize how gay you're making us look."  
  
"You're not even listening to me now, man," I say. "This proves my point exactly. You making that comment."  
  
"And what is your god damn, POINT, Knuckles?" he asks me, without raising his voice.  
  
"That you don't care about ME, you just care about your fucking reputation!"  
  
He is silent again. Fuming.  
  
"You just use me to help you beat that Robotnik dumbass. Then when your little interview is over, and I make you look all high and mighty with my badly groomed presentation, you toss me aside and throw me on that fucking island again. I HATE that island. I'm sick of it!"  
  
"As you would be."  
  
"Up yours! I mean, you're lecturing me about just wanting your money, when all you want from me is a comparison. I'm not important. It's just my appearance. He just wants my BODY," I announce to the crowd in the most flamboyant voice possible.  
  
"You're scaring me now, man."  
  
"Sonic, I'm going NUTS!"  
  
He stares at me, angry, while I catch my breath.  
  
"That's no reason to touch my cock."  
  
He walks off.  
  
And I'm left there, standing in the middle of a bunch of castrate morons, eunuching at me and shouting unfriendly things.  
  
"Fags!"  
  
"Poof!"  
  
"Homos!"  
  
"Queer fuck!"  
  
"Come and touch me, honey!"  
  
I break down. My knees collapse. I begin to cry.  
  
It's too much.  
  
Too fucking much.  
  
I've just lost a cash source, a reputation as a heterosexual man, a way to and from Angel Island, and my best friend.  
  
It's way too fucking much.  
  
Unfortunately I'm not crazy enough yet to only imagine the three skinheads that appear from the crowds.  
  
The three skinheads that drag me out of the theatre.  
  
The three skinheads that throw me into an alley.  
  
The three skinheads that rough me up. Really bad.  
  
Nothing interesting. A punch here, a kick there, a slam here. Nothing worth writing.  
  
Blood trickles from my limbs. I've been cut by discarded glass.  
  
If not for the police, I probably would've been killed.  
  
And with this painfully ironic turn of events, I'm now wondering why in the name of all things good and holy I'm not already dead.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that.  
  
***  
  
It's about a week after the movie.  
  
I'm still stuck down below.  
  
I attempted to find some way to redeem myself. Some hurried explanation. But nothing came. That guy is too damn stubborn for me. Or is it too smart?  
  
Sonic is mad. There's no other way to describe it. It's funny how when an emotion is so overwhelmingly powerful that you can't describe it in more than one word. It's like the 'true' form. He's just MAD. And put off. And disappointed.  
  
There's no talking to him.  
  
As a result, I have no more chaos control lessons. And as a further result, I'm stranded down here.  
  
Why am I complaining? Why am I stranded?  
  
I always thought I would like to live down here. As it turns out, I can't get a job, and therefore living up there on the island is slightly easier. More emotionally stressful, but easier.  
  
I can't buy coffee. Or anything with caffeine in it, for that matter. I need money to buy caffeine that keeps me awake, so that I don't suddenly die from hunger in my sleep. I haven't eaten properly in a few days, it would have been a week if not for the popcorn I saved from the movie.  
  
I need money to get a driver's license. Without a driver's license, I can't buy the unfiltered cigarettes that keep me bordered to my sanity. I know it sounds sick and weird, but it's hard to explain.  
  
Think about it. If smoking relaxes you, and you're trying not to totally lose it, then suddenly you have to deal with quitting the smoking habit as well, it's not easy.  
  
Who cares?  
  
I pass by the Starbucks and look inside. A usual scene, people getting their coffee and cheap mugs. Coffee bar merchandise, etc.  
  
There is something unusual, however. I know someone in there. First of all, there's Rouge. But there are a couple of others as well. Amy. And…  
  
Victor.  
  
I walk nonchalantly inside. Victor. Old gang member. I haven't seen him since I was about thirteen, and unless Rouge and Amy had been there, I wouldn't have intended to start now. I can't quite remember how I met him, or the others, but we got to hang out for a couple of years before I got thrown back onto that island. That contributed to my stress. Culture shock.  
  
"Afternoon," I say, completely uninvited. I notice. "Not intruding, am I?"  
  
"Not at all," Rouge cuts Amy off, who no doubt was going to try and shun me. Rouge gives her one of those looks.  
  
Victor still appears to be half conscious, listening to that godawful speed metal of his. I think he took a couple of other members and the Chaotix name, then made a punk band. He was talking about it before I left, but he never got it off the ground. Probably because I kept telling him there were more important things to be doing in his age of fourteen. Suddenly his eyes open. He looks pleasantly surprised for half a second, then pulls off his headphones.  
  
"Well, fuck me with a ten foot pole. I don't believe it."  
  
"Pleasant analogy there, Vic, you really put a nice image in my head." I sit down, still finishing my sentence.  
  
"Sorry…"  
  
"Man, cut your language down around the ladies, huh? Don't be such a dick."  
  
"Now who needs to tone their language?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up."  
  
There is a silence.  
  
Then both of us start laughing.  
  
We do the gang-shake. I really don't remember what it's called, the push- punch fists thing. But we do it.  
  
"Great to see you again."  
  
"Great to see ANYBODY again," I say, shuddering. Rouge smiles.  
  
"Can I get you a coffee?" she asks politely.  
  
"I'd love that, but I don't want to extort your hard earned cash."  
  
"Nonsense," she says, running through her purse. "I still owe you the medical bills."  
  
"Fair enough," I say, rubbing the scars. I say they itch.  
  
"Umm… frappucino, I guess." Today there's a special.  
  
"Crappucino? Come on, man, I thought we all made a pact never to become gay."  
  
"I think I nearly let you guys down last night. Skinheads, complete with arse-whooping action. Collect the whole set."  
  
"Come on, man, don't tell me you're backing out now."  
  
"One, that was at least five years ago," I say while he laughs at me. "And two, a frrrrapuccino does not make me gay. It's the same as a milkshake."  
  
"It's faggy."  
  
"Just because it's in some form of French doesn't make it gay."  
  
"Italian, actually."  
  
We pause for a minute.  
  
Then realize how stupid the conversation is.  
  
We chat like old friends. Which makes enough sense, because we are.  
  
I've begun to down my shake.  
  
"So what the hell's been going on with you, Vic?"  
  
"Not a whole lot… I finally got that band idea off the ground…"  
  
"No thanks to me."  
  
"Hell no, man. If you hadn't left, it wouldn't have worked."  
  
Wrong thing to say.  
  
"That's not exactly a good thing to tell me, Vic."  
  
There's a bit of a silence. I'm thinking I might end up getting kicked out of another restaurant.  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"I didn't WANT to go back to that island. You know that. I don't need to be told that doing it was beneficial for others."  
  
"Well, it was."  
  
The bastard has no tact.  
  
"Yes, well, if I had stayed here, I may have been able to get a license," I say, getting rather angry. "Maybe I could've gone to school. Maybe gotten a job. Maybe I wouldn't currently be losing my god forsaken mind. But now you're telling me it's a good thing I went, because you could go on with your freaking rock band pipe dream!"  
  
"Hey," he says, getting equally angry. "I don't need to hear this from some crappucino-sucking one-hander echidna. I really don't, bro."  
  
"And I don't need to hear THAT from some weed-choking speed metal junkie crocodile. I really don't, BRO."  
  
"Fuck you too," he says, taking a long sip from his coffee. "Frappucino."  
  
"Will you get over the damn frappucino?!"  
  
"Only when you stop drinking it, fag."  
  
What is it with people and French? Italian, sorry.  
  
I take the vanilla concoction and stand up. What is left of it, I turn over and pour onto his lap.  
  
"Ah! Shit, man!"  
  
"Careful, the cold might shrink your brain."  
  
He is silent.  
  
Shortly before drawing a knife and slicing me across the neck.  
  
"Knuckles?"  
  
Sudden voice.  
  
"Knuckles, are you okay?"  
  
There are a few people staring at me. The others have better things to do.  
  
I am standing up, and grabbing at my neck with a choking sound for no particular reason. No knife. Obviously. No pain. Obviously. No Victor. Ob—  
  
No Victor?  
  
I don't believe it. Victor wasn't even there to begin with. No wonder the others didn't try to break up our fight. I must have been talking to myself for several minutes.  
  
I must have poured my frappucino over the seat for some odd scene. And look, my vanilla has only just reached our table.  
  
I guess this is what it's like for schizophrenics. I suspect they were too clouded by images to give a more accurate description.  
  
I realize that while I am mulling in shock, I am still grabbing at my throat. I pause. People are watching and scowling. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing they can see, anyhow.  
  
"Re… rehearsing, folks," I say, sitting down slowly. "Rehearsing some lines. I guess this isn't the time."  
  
"Or place," I hear someone mumble. An image of removing another head for insubordination flashes through my eyes.  
  
I sit down.  
  
Amy gives me a look. Rouge gives me a warmer look.  
  
"Rehearsing? For what?"  
  
"Um… a play," I lie. Trying to save face. Again.  
  
"A play?" she asks, genuinely interested. "How interesting."  
  
"Yeah, I suppose. It's called Nightdance or something."  
  
How hopelessly hacked on. Not even knowing for sure the name of my own employment.  
  
"Are you getting paid?"  
  
Ouch. She went straight for it. She wants to know if I'll have any more reason to bum off her.  
  
But, I don't want to bum money off Rouge.  
  
"Yeah. Like, a hundred a week, or something."  
  
"It's a start," she says, stirring sugar into her coffee. I can tell something from her attitude. I don't think Amy told her about the movie incident yet.  
  
"Yeah…"  
  
"Would you like me to help you?" she asks.  
  
What?  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"Would you like me to go over some lines with you? If you have a copy of the script? If you're not too busy, that is."  
  
Oh, joy. Please tell me I'm actually hearing this. Please tell me I'm not going crazy again.  
  
You're not going crazy again.  
  
Thank you.  
  
"No. That would be great. Really great."  
  
I need company.  
  
I need a friend!  
  
I FUCKING NEED SOMEONE TO TALK TO!  
  
HELP! PLEASE, HELP ME REHEARSE MY SO-CALLED LINES!  
  
She smiles. That devilish, fanged bat smile of hers. She has something up her sleeve. Or pant leg, as the case may be.  
  
What a disgusting analogy.  
  
"You'll have to stop by and hook up with me after work, though," she says. "You can't get into my place without a key. I live in one of those apartment complexes with the gate."  
  
"Isn't there an intercom, or something?"  
  
"It's broken."  
  
Oh.  
  
"Work? Got a new job, have you?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm working tonight. My shift starts at six."  
  
"So you gave up the whole G-police bit."  
  
"Yeah… if you could stop by at about nine, that would be great. I'm a night owl, I'll still be wide awake."  
  
"I don't have a watch, Rouge."  
  
"Oh… right…"  
  
"You can borrow mine," Amy offers kindly, handing it to me. "As long as you return it. Clean," she snaps. That was uncalled for.  
  
"Not nice."  
  
"Too bad."  
  
Obviously she has no respect left for me. She doesn't need any. What the hell could I do to her anyway?  
  
"So… where do you work?"  
  
***  
  
Take a guess. Maybe you'll be surprised, maybe you won't.  
  
How's people enjoying the story so far then? Do tell. So far I say!  
  
Okay, I want to clear this up now, because some people (not only in reviews) have been thinking that I need to write this a different way or I need to write faster (positive :P) or I should reconsider the flow of the story. Except for things that I see fit, and mostly grammatical or communication errors, this fic will not be changed—because I have already completed it. Please understand that now—this story is already finished and I am merely uploading its segments every three days while working on something else. Please stop telling me how you think the plot should flow, people.  
  
Thank you.  
  
David Macintyre  
  
(screen fades out as temple music from Secret of Mana plays quietly) 


	8. Bouncer

***  
  
CHAPTER EIGHT  
  
BOUNCER  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
***  
  
I soon enough realize that I regret asking her that question.  
  
She didn't tell me the name. But she slid across a piece of paper with the address on it. I was instructed to come by at nine and she would take me to her place. If she wasn't at the intersection, she'd be waiting outside.  
  
I am outside that address now. I have been walking for the last two hours. On this street for the last six minutes.  
  
I discovered that, on my divine quest to kill time, I had taken my walk around the city to an intersection at fourth and Tanner. I wandered down, knowing that Rouge worked at twenty-four Tanner Boulevard  
  
Soon enough I discover I've wandered into the Red Light district.  
  
My friends have made enough jokes like this before. But now they're right.  
  
It is now eight pm. Rouge is working for an escort service slash strip bar. Question is, which half?  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream.  
  
***  
  
"Welcome to the Femme Fleur Sale." That's pronounced sal.  
  
What kind of fucking name is that? You don't name a strip club in French. For obvious reasons.  
  
"I don't recognize you. Is this your first time here?"  
  
"And hopefully my last," I snap coldly. The bouncer looks rather displeased.  
  
"Watch your tongue."  
  
"I can't. It's too far down my face."  
  
He is quashed. Obviously an idiot. No idea what to come back with.  
  
"Look, are you going to let me in, or not?"  
  
He is quashed again.  
  
"Sorry, you need some ID. You look under eighteen."  
  
I don't believe this.  
  
"Friend, look, just let me through, okay? I'm not here to get myself off."  
  
"That's what the women say," he laughs. "I'll need some ID, young' un, or I can't let you in."  
  
"Just let me in."  
  
"I would. I know I would because I tried to get into clubs when I was under eighteen as well. But I could lose my job, and we could lose our fine establishment here."  
  
Establishment? This is not an establishement. This is a sleaze. A skoat. A raunch. A hoe-down. But not an establishment.  
  
"Can't be bothered," I say, hiding the fact that I have no ID, or money, or anything. "I'll just wait."  
  
"That wouldn't be the point."  
  
God.  
  
"Look, I'm not here to see your sleaze of an establishment. I'm here to pick up a friend. From work," I say, closing the misconception loophole. "She's working until nine."  
  
"Oh."  
  
I light another cigarette. I'm going to be here for awhile.  
  
I wait for what feels like several hours. I check Amy's watch. It's only been twenty minutes.  
  
"Come here often?" he asks.  
  
I give him a look.  
  
"Oh, right. It's your first time, isn't it."  
  
"Good boy."  
  
I take another puff.  
  
"So… whatcha been up to?" he asks. I turn to him.  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"Whachoo been doing?"  
  
"Not a lot." Not a lot I can do, is there?  
  
"Ah. Just chilling, eh?"  
  
Hardly. I have not been 'chilling'. I have been turning. Tossing. Writhing. Asking God, why, WHY, do I have to live like this? WHY do I hallucinate? WHY do I see things, hear things, feel things that aren't real?  
  
WHY AM I TURNING AND THROWING MYSELF AROUND?  
  
WHY AM I SLOWLY FALLING, FALLING DOWN INTO AN UNEXPLAINABLE PIT OF INSANITY?!  
  
WHY?!  
  
FUCKING WHY?!  
  
*WHYYYYYYYY?!?!?!?!?!?!*  
  
"Yeah. Just chilling."  
  
"True, true."  
  
I wait for another ten minutes. It feels like half an hour. I chuck away the blunt cigarette and lean into the wall, taking in the surroundings.  
  
"Who are you here to see?" he asks me, after asking a few people for membership cards, and letting them through.  
  
"Rouge," I state flatly. I consider lighting another cigarette. I don't. I don't want to look like an addict. The guy nods and laughs.  
  
"Rouge? She's pretty popular around here."  
  
"I can imagine." I picture her in a place like this. Her broad hips, her long, beautiful legs, her full, luscious upper torso. It's easy to imagine from her body. Impossible to think from her mind.  
  
"Tell you the truth, she gave me a free drink once. Of course, if she's expecting you, that won't even compare to your luck."  
  
That's disgusting.  
  
"Really? What sort of crap does she do?"  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
Obviously not. I am here to pick up a friend. I did not find out beforehand what Rouge does at the escort service slash strip club that I didn't know about.  
  
"Nope."  
  
He smiles.  
  
"She's a bartender."  
  
I don't know if it's shock or relief. On the one hand, I'm relieved that she isn't exposing herself. She isn't worth that. On the other hand, she may be—and she's way too smart for a job like that. It's just below her. I'm disappointed, Rouge.  
  
"A bartender, huh?"  
  
"Yeah. Gets lots of customers, what with that chest of hers."  
  
"And that has what to do with being a bartender?"  
  
"Oh, right, you haven't been here before, have you? Topless. She works topless."  
  
Ah, shit, I give up.  
  
"Cool," I say, lighting another cigarette. Fuck being an addict, I need a smoke. This is too much.  
  
"Pretty damn cool."  
  
"Listen, um…"  
  
"Harry."  
  
Harry. What a typical name for a bouncer. Let's call him Darwin.  
  
"Yeah, Darwin. Um… listen, I really need to go in and see her for a moment."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"I just… do, okay?"  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Look, it's only for a couple of minutes. And if I don't come out within ten minutes you can beat the shit out of me."  
  
"Ten minutes is long enough to get yourself off, bud."  
  
What the fuck is it going to take to get this guy to let me in?  
  
I'm not going to be psychotically predictable and tell you that there actually was no bouncer. That you don't need a membership. That it was just another mental illusion. And that I've been standing outside the place for forty five minutes, talking to myself, smoking cigarettes. And that I just waltzed right in. That wouldn't be my style. It would make you leave my story right here and go read something else. And it didn't happen. Then who would keep out the under eighteens?  
  
Instead, I'm going to tell you this: I found a back entrance. THEN I waltzed right in.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
***  
  
"Kidding me," I say.  
  
"Shitting me," I say.  
  
"Pulling my fucking leg," I say.  
  
"Yanking my god damn chain," I say.  
  
I can't believe this.  
  
She WORKS here.  
  
This is her JOB.  
  
Lap dancers. Pole sluts. 'Exotic dancers'. Every fucking piece of sleaze.  
  
I always thought I would like to visit a place like this if I ever got the chance. Now I know better. You learn something new every day.  
  
This place is a pit. A sleaze. A hole. Women flaunting their bodies for a few extra bucks. The human body may be a thing of beauty. But not when it takes advantage of this fact.  
  
And there she is.  
  
Rouge. She's over there, at the bar. Cleaning a glass. She has no shirt on, no bra. I'm not even sure if she's wearing any pants. Ah, jeans. You couldn't see anything below the bar anyhow. Unless you were a pervert.  
  
It's amazing how redundant that was.  
  
I take a seat at the bar. I'm hanging my head. I now, from her side of the bar, look like some dude with dyed red hair. Good shock value.  
  
"You look down, buddy," she says comfortingly. I know it's just an act. "What's troubling you?"  
  
I don't say anything for a bit. She tends to some other customers, who offer her a few bucks for a dance. She gives them a rain check. Smart girl. Halfway smart.  
  
"Come on, bud," she says, cleaning another glass. I am pulling out a cigarette. I can't believe the sort of thing she is doing. "Something's got you down. That's why you're here."  
  
"Only slightly."  
  
"That's why I'M here too, y'know."  
  
God, she even has this… fake… accent, this home girl, caring sort of family personality. Like she's just helping out a friend. I suppose that's a good talent. I'm not even sure if it's a fake way of talking. Maybe that beautiful verbal demeanor of hers when I see her is an act? It's all coming down. It's like I don't know what's real and what's not. She is life, and her words are what my mind is telling me life is saying. This situation is a perfect metaphor. Don't let my location give you a really filthy pun.  
  
"Fair enough… okay. I just found out that a very good friend of mine has given up her high-class, well-paying job and intelligence to go and work in a dirty, small-time slut job in the back of some filth-encrusted Red Light district contemporary."  
  
She pauses, and continues cleaning the glass.  
  
"Sounds familiar," she says. "But I don't think I know you. So I won't assume I do."  
  
Thank you. Let me drag it out.  
  
"Can I get you a drink?"  
  
"I haven't got any money."  
  
"No problem. I'll put it on your tab."  
  
"What makes you think I'll be coming back?"  
  
She seems to be defeated for a moment. But she's just smiling. In know it's that fanged grin again.  
  
"They all do. They ALWAYS come back." She drawls for effect on always.  
  
"Not me," I say as she hands me a shot glass of some random alcohol. I take a quick sip.  
  
"So. Come here often?"  
  
"No," I say, not commenting on the redundancy of the question.  
  
"Come on, chin up. Let everyone see you. I bet you're real cute."  
  
"Hm."  
  
"I'm not going to bite."  
  
"Really now?" I say, lifting up my head. "Too late." There's that moment, that beautiful moment of stunned surprise on her face. I'm early. I'm inside without a membership. I've gotten what is pretty much a free drink. I've surprised her with my sudden appearance for the second time. And I've seen her nude chest.  
  
"Oh… hi," she says. I can't tell if she's mentally screaming in embarrassment or just plain surprised. She has that way with words. It's a talent of hers. Of course, being a spy she would need to hide her emotions.  
  
"Happy to see me?"  
  
"Not really. I would've put on something more decent."  
  
Ah. I see. So it's alright to flash yourself at guys that you don't even know, that just want you for your lower appearance. Not for your face or your mind, like me. But when it comes to a friend, to a person that deserves to see you like this more than anybody else in the room, you need to put on something a little more decent. I've noticed this unwritten rule in several places. Porn stars, for example. Sluts.  
  
"Oh well."  
  
She doesn't say anything. She walks over and tends to a few customers. One of them makes a grab at her front. She backs away, smiling and laughing at the same time. She tells them to be patient.  
  
I am praying, hoping to God—the unhelpful prick—that this is just another hallucination. That I am actually waiting outside a respectable business, or maybe that I have wandered into the waiting room of a law firm. I am praying for insanity.  
  
But nothing comes.  
  
This is all real. All happening.  
  
Nothing comes. Except the guy a few seats down.  
  
"You're going to go saggy, working like this," I say to her as she passes by. I take another swig from my drink.  
  
"How would you know?" she asks. A genuinely sensible question. But still smarmy.  
  
"Just because I've been stuck… up THERE, for most of my life, doesn't mean I don't know what a BRA is for."  
  
"Shut the fuck up, Knuckles."  
  
Ooh. Good answer.  
  
Ding! You win snappy comebacks for two hundred. How do you feel? Oh, that's good. Anyway…  
  
"Is there a TV in here?"  
  
"Over there," she points. I look for a minute or two, then look away. It's a porno. I should be watching, but it reminds me too much of where the hell I am, and what the hell my, EDUCATED, SKILLFUL AND INTELLIGENT FRIEND IS DOING IN A PLACE LIKE THIS!  
  
WHY THE FUCK DOES THIS CRAP ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?!  
  
"You nearly done?"  
  
"Another five minutes," she says. I don't believe this. What the hell is five minutes? Be DONE!  
  
"What the hell," she says, pushing a couple of buttons on the register and opening it. She takes a few bucks. A few hundred bucks.  
  
"May as well get SOMETHING out of this," she mumbles to herself.  
  
"Hey, Rouge! Woot! Where're you goin'?"  
  
"Sorry, boys," she calls back happily. "Got to get home. Feed the kids."  
  
Kids?  
  
I'm not only echoing that word for the pure shock of her having children now. It is the fact that she is stating she has children while working in a strip bar. That implies that she is married. Isn't that a bit off-putting for low people like this?  
  
I follow her. She goes into a dressing room. I can't go in there with her for reasons obvious. And there's a dude at the door stopping me.  
  
"No free shows," he says, chuckling.  
  
"Yeah, right," I say, turning away in my sardonic fashion and lighting another cigarette. Now she has kids.  
  
*** 


	9. After hours

As I said before, this story is long and large. So I may cut the update time again—how does every other day sound?  
  
I wouldn't be able to put it into effect right away, because I'm busy. BIZ- EE. But anyhow, here's your ninth chapter. Enjoy it.  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER NINE  
  
AFTER HOURS  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
***  
  
We are outside the place. I had to sneak around from the back entrance, of course. To avoid having the words 'members only' and 'femme fleur sale' imprinted forcefully into my skull.  
  
"You did not just say you had kids."  
  
"Yes I did."  
  
Can't believe it.  
  
Don't believe it.  
  
Don't want to believe it. Can't want to believe it either.  
  
Why am I talking about this? There are more important things to be telling her. Like, she has demeaned her existence by taking her qualifications to the quick fix.  
  
"You have kids. You're kidding me."  
  
She gives me a look.  
  
"Of course not," she says. "That was just an excuse to get out of there. I don't have any kids. Or even a boyfriend, for that matter."  
  
"Thank god," I say, pulling out another cigarette. These things are addictive. TOO addictive.  
  
"Gimme one," she says, withdrawing a lighter and taking the cig in my hand. "God, I need one of these right about now."  
  
"Don't burp," I say. She scowls.  
  
"I hear you."  
  
Great. She completely missed the point.  
  
"You realize you're working in a fucking hole. You're too smart for that place. What happened to your diploma?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"Come on, I have more reason to be in a place like that than you. What's going on?"  
  
She sighs. She is hiding something.  
  
"From ME, of all people. The one person I can think of who really cares about you."  
  
Did I just say that?  
  
"You're right."  
  
My god. She knows what I'm talking about. We have so much in common.  
  
I just left her career at a strip club. So maybe that's not such a good thing.  
  
"Knuckles, I hate that place."  
  
"And so you should. Why are you working there?"  
  
"Make ends meet."  
  
"You've got to be kidding me. You're a really smart girl, Rouge. I'm sure you could get any job you want. Why are you working THERE?"  
  
"Look, Knux, I'll tell you everything. Just let me get us back to my apartment, all right?"  
  
"Okay. I'll take your rain check."  
  
"DON'T give me that right now, Knuckles."  
  
We leave the District. We come to the intersection. We walk for about an hour. I follow her, and run through two cigs—including the one I gave her.  
  
I see a lot of things that I don't want to see. I see Rouge screwing someone in the street. I see her offering another woman a lap dance. I see her trying to pick up a hobo. I see her offering services to a child.  
  
I see myself kicking her head in. I see myself slaughtering every person I saw in that bar. I see myself destroying her, her existence. Everything.  
  
Tonight she has added to my pain. That's all there is to it.  
  
She has let me down.  
  
Why, Rouge?  
  
Why did you do it?  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
***  
  
"Okay. Let me start from the beginning."  
  
"That may help."  
  
"Please, Knux… I'm tired. I don't need the sarcasm."  
  
"I thought you were a night owl."  
  
"Knuckles…!"  
  
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."  
  
I'm in her apartment.  
  
It's not much of a place. Singles flats. Canned goods here and there, some newspapers along the ground, a crappy TV, and a box with some meager amounts of cash in it. A cubicle of a kitchen with a shitty microwave and oven. A tiny toilet, encrusted in neglect.  
  
Paradise!  
  
"Murphy bed?" I ask, seeing no sign of a bedroom.  
  
"Fold-out," she says, indicating the couch and sipping some of her canned soup. She's very generously made me some. I was hungry. But not hungry enough to take an extra soup for one from her. I won't ask for seconds, even though my stomach is throwing a spoiled temper tantrum.  
  
"Nice place you have here."  
  
"Thanks," she says, knowing I'm not being sincere.  
  
"It's got to be better than Angel Island."  
  
"Which brings me to the beginning of my story."  
  
I am silent. I have instigated another conversation—I am unable to speak for the orgasmic pleasure.  
  
"You remember when I bit you…"  
  
"How could I forget?"  
  
"I'm sorry. I really am."  
  
"So I heard. Please just continue." I really don't want to relive that day again.  
  
"Okay… well, after I quit my job in Washington, I moved back to Station Square. I knew it was a good spot to set up camp."  
  
"Camp?"  
  
"I wasn't ALWAYS in this little shack, for your information."  
  
"Continue." Just get on with it, would you? Go into one of those long ass informational lectures. Maybe I'll die of boredom. Hopefully.  
  
"I began looking for a place where I could work. I'd already earned my Ph.D…"  
  
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be working in that slutty shithole."  
  
"Can I finish?"  
  
Of course she can. How stupid of me to interrupt. I silently berate myself. Die of boredom, die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom. And hunger.  
  
"So, after thinking about our little… meeting…"  
  
"The BITE…"  
  
"The bite… I sort of took a Freudian turn. I began thinking. You remember how Freud asked about what a woman wants?"  
  
"Rouge."  
  
"Sorry… well, he did." She explains the Freudian query. I am slowly losing consciousness, I think.  
  
"…So I decided I wanted to find out. What does a MAN want?"  
  
Well. This is sounding a hell of a lot more interesting. But she's still a slut.  
  
A DIRTY, FUCKING WHORE.  
  
"And, I got my office set up. I became a professional psychiatrist."  
  
The shock and happiness is too much. Not only am I surprised and pleased that she, at least for awhile, had a proper job—but there is potentially a beautiful woman sitting across from me that can give me psychiatric help. God bless… um, fate, God, whatever.  
  
Ha. God bless God. Good one, Knuckles, you idiot.  
  
"A psychiatrist?" I ask, interested, lighting another cigarette to calm myself. Listen to her tell her story first, Knux. Die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom.  
  
"Yeah. I started taking patients and listening to their problems, giving them therapy, et cetera. All the while I tried to milk a few opinions on women troubles from the male patients, which almost inevitably ended in a little contribution to my list. Look—" she pulls out a long piece of paper. It's got several little things noted down on it. Most of them refer to mental things, like want of a sense of humor and liking girls with a good personality. Others refer to large body parts.  
  
"Quite a list," I say.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Continue, continue."  
  
She shifts uncomfortably.  
  
"Hmm…"  
  
"Rouge… look at me for a second."  
  
I want to tell her this. It is more important to me now than anything. She has to know this. She has to.  
  
"Rouge, you can tell me ANYTHING."  
  
She just looks blank. She's mulling on it, I can see it in her eyes.  
  
"Well."  
  
She stirs her soup around.  
  
"Just a reminder, I haven't eaten in a week, so if you don't want it, I'll take it."  
  
"A WEEK?"  
  
"Continue."  
  
"A whole WEEK?"  
  
"Continue!"  
  
"S…sorry."  
  
She is silent for a bit.  
  
"I got sued," she says. This has taken a rather unpleasant turn.  
  
"For what?" I chuckle. "Emotional distress?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Great. I feel like a total heel now.  
  
Don't talk. Don't say another word.  
  
Die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom…  
  
She removes my head. Then continues talking.  
  
"Some guy came by one day. He said that ever since I made him relive his girl problems, he'd been feeling like he'd gone insane. So I lost most of my money, and I had to move into… THIS."  
  
I want to laugh. Laugh with her. Kiss her. Fuck her. Rape her up the god damn ass. Whatever. Anything to let her know I care. Maybe the last one doesn't count.  
  
Tell me. What IS insane, Rouge? I think you should go right back to that guy and tell him to go get fucked.  
  
"It's got to be better than I what I live on."  
  
"Knuckles…you live in a paradise island in the sky. No bills. No job. No responsibilities. Just peace and tranquility all day long. Nothing ever has to happent to you, like with me and the others down here. You don't have to deal with anyone. Anything. You…"  
  
Suddenly she realizes that she shot herself in the foot. Smart girl.  
  
"Let's hear the rest of it."  
  
"I didn't have any money left," she said. "And I knew that with my reputation and limited funds I couldn't go back to work in an office again… so I had to take advantage of what else I had."  
  
"A voluptuous body."  
  
"Yes… hey."  
  
Shit.  
  
"You creep! Stop looking at me, perv!" She giggles. I don't laugh. I light myself another cig.  
  
"Rouge, I'm really sorry that you had to go and work in a shithole like that."  
  
"Well, it eventually gave me an idea… I still wanted to find the key to the mind of a human male. And wouldn't you know it, one day I suddenly realized that I was surrounded by them."  
  
"No shit."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
God, I ran through that one quickly. I light another.  
  
"Well, I decided I'd pick up my old project. I was writing a book on the male mind. What they want, what they look at, what they like, what makes them tick, and what makes them talk."  
  
"No pun intended, I hope?"  
  
She rolls her eyes and sighs.  
  
"Unfortunately yes. Worse luck, that's the back cover synopsis."  
  
"Ouuch."  
  
"So, I realized, that working there could really help me," she says, sipping her soup. "I can start the lusts and sexual clamor section. If I finish my book, I can hopefully publish and get all my cash back."  
  
It's a great story. But I don't think it's true.  
  
Sure, Rouge could be a psychiatrist. But she wouldn't write a book. I think she's just trying to save face.  
  
Poor, blind Rouge. She just doesn't understand.  
  
"Rouge… look. You're a psychiatrist. You're a qualified shrink, am I right?"  
  
"Yes…"  
  
"Well…"  
  
I pour everything into her frail little mind. My thoughts, my hopes, my despairs, my fears, my dreams, my life, my loves, my affection, my insane dilemmas. And she listens.  
  
She actually listens.  
  
But she looks shocked. Surprised. Blank.  
  
"That's a hell of a problem."  
  
"Fuck yes," I say, lighting another cig. FUCK. I need these things.  
  
"I think, if you give me a little bit, I can come up with a diagnosis."  
  
She's kidding me.  
  
Joking me.  
  
Shitting me.  
  
Pulling my fucking leg.  
  
"Yanking my god damn chain," I mumble, sucking the disgusting, yet wonderful white cylinder.  
  
"No… I think, if you give me time, I can come up with something."  
  
I don't believe it. I honestly don't. Because I know that a lot of things I've been seeing, hearing and feeling lately have just been in my mind. I'm not even sure if I'm HERE. For all I know I could be stranded in the street outside the club, which could also be a mirage. All this, this horrible situation I have returned to find my friend in is not good for the fragile soul.  
  
There is a sudden image of full expression. I am, of course, using a metaphor. In both senses of the word.  
  
"I should probably go," I say. God, no, I don't want to go. I don't want to leave. I want to stay. I want to stay, have some soup, watch TV, sleep in a BED, GET TO TALK WITH SOMEONE OTHER THAN MYSELF, USE A TOILET, HAVE A PARTY, TOUCH SOMETHING, SOMEONE, STICK MYSELF INTO THEM, USE THE BED IN MORE WAYS THAN—  
  
"Okay," she says, knowing that I simply do not want to impose. I get up slowly from the chair, extinguishing the cigarette against my thick black coat, leaving a little burn mark on the forearm. She doesn't have an ashtray to speak of. I discard the used, wretched, yet hopelessly essential object.  
  
I make my way across the filthy floor to the door. Ha, ha, a rhyme. I think I have made myself laugh. I must be retarded now too.  
  
"Wait," she says, getting up from the table and walking over. I silently berate myself again, for noticing the way her hips move, the way her legs look, the way her chest wobbles as she walks over the garbage toward me. It's not my fault she wears tight clothing. I think that I'll be berating myself a little less silently later after seeing her in that bar. I admit it. I am a master berater.  
  
"Before I lose you again," she says. "I may not see you for awhile."  
  
"What is—"  
  
My mouth is hushed as her own presses against it. I am unable to move my tongue for her own. I have been successfully silenced, unable to speak. No wonder she made a spy.  
  
*** 


	10. Alleyway

This chapter is added in early—I forgot to include it in chapter nine, and I knew people wouldn't notice a change in nine. So here is chapter ten.  
  
Final note: Although it may seem so, this chapter was written with no outside influence (from the reviews, which didn't exist yet). You'll understand what I mean.  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER TEN  
  
ALLEYWAY  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
***  
  
I pray that this isn't happening.  
  
That I am hallucinating again.  
  
But nothing happens.  
  
I am lying in the middle of an alleyway. There are overturned garbage cans around me, and I am lying in a bed of refuse. Disgusting potato chip packets and sharp aluminum cans.  
  
There is a patch of blood on my right palm, which for the oddest reason is wrapped in a piece of gauze. I must have done that. I suspect from being cut by that piece of sharp, broken glass lying nearby.  
  
A little bit comes back to me.  
  
Rouge got me drunk, for one thing. And herself. I'm not surprised.  
  
Something… something that deserves a euphemism, happened between us. One like 'making of love' or 'showing our feelings for each other'.  
  
All right, I'll just say it. SEX! FUCK! TWAT-POUND! BANG! HIT! PUMP! NAIL! SCREW! BOLT! AND WHILE WE'RE USING HARDWARE NAMES—HAMMER! PILE-DRIVE! PISTON! SCISSOR-PENCIL! VIIIIRRRGIIIIIN LOOOOOSS!  
  
Happy now?  
  
You take the class out of everything.  
  
Once again, class is the least of my problems.  
  
I roll over and my elbow lands on another piece of glass. I wince in pain and remove it, thankful that the padded coat has blocked any surface break. But I've got a nice little indentation there now. I love this coat.  
  
An unexpected turn of events. Miles suddenly comes careening down and lands rather sloppily nearby. I am dead ashamed. No. Why does he have to see me like this? My little student. My young friend. Why, oh why, did the boy have to see his other father—perish the sick thoughts, dear reader—lying here pathetically in a piece of garbage?  
  
Let's compare.  
  
He's wearing a rather stylish blue vest over a black shirt with tan cuffs and collar. Blue jeans, the original standard. Clean, ironed. His hair—that is, the scruff at the top of his head-- is neat and trim. His appearance is splendid, if you'll pardon the use of such a word in such a context.  
  
I am lying in a pile of my own filth. Enough said.  
  
"Am I dreaming, mommy?" I ask, staring into the sky. I want a cigarette.  
  
"I'm not your mom," Miles states. Dr. Obvious, please report to ER.  
  
"Oh dear. Then I'd better get my thumb out of my mouth. Help me up here."  
  
Miles holds out a hand, which I take, and heave myself up. I ruffle his hair again. He's a good kid. Kind of naive, but good.  
  
"Snappy dress," he comments. "Why the mask?"  
  
"What ma—"  
  
What the hell. No. Not this.  
  
I pull it off. It's leather, with stitches round it, making it look like some kind of wrestling mask. It covers my entire head, and conceals my dreads.  
  
I dare not think that this is an S AND M mask. The idea of me lying in an alley trying to sadomasochise myself simultaneously is very disturbing. Bring on the broken glass.  
  
"Where did you come from, little fox?"  
  
He pardons the comment. For now.  
  
"There's a problem," he says. It sounds urgent. Though he looks to be in perfect health and there is no tone of fear in his voice, his face seems pale and his eyes are sort of blank and dreamy, like he is staring at something nobody else can see.  
  
"Not Eggman again?"  
  
"No," he says. "Worse."  
  
No elaboration. No extension of a comment. This kid has a lot to learn about dramatics.  
  
However, strangely, a flat, straightforward comment is all I need here. Simple, effective.  
  
"Thank god, I've been searching for you for hours…We need you to come with us, we're meeting at the burger joint again. We need your help, bad."  
  
I'm surprised at the actual need for my assistance, and not my pathetic appearance. Which at the moment I have in plentiful supply.  
  
I think about what could be bad enough to make Sonic break his promise.  
  
"Sonic?"  
  
"Sonic's still pissed off," he says. "But he said he wants to put it aside for now."  
  
"What could possibly be bad enough?"  
  
Miles looks frightened. He doesn't look around, shifty eyed, like I expect most people would in such a situation.  
  
"It's… really bad, Knux… Amy's been raped."  
  
***  
  
Barakao just had a lucky guess. But the solution—who did it-- isn't revealed yet. So don't assume, peeps! :P 


	11. Yet more problems

Are you sure you're reading the right chapter? Maybe you just went to the bottom in the assumption that it's the one you haven't read—I made the same mistake with another fic I read, so make sure you've read chapter ten, Alleyway, before you read this one.  
  
Carry on.  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER ELEVEN  
  
YET ANOTHER PROBLEM  
  
***  
  
Make sure you saw the rant above this!  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
***  
  
Rape. It's such a powerful word.  
  
Say it. Rape. Rape. Rrrrraaaaaape.  
  
Whenever I think of the word 'rape' I always associate it with somebody being beaten over the head with a bat while the rapist exercises their tube. I associate it with the mental image of someone having their head smashed in and being forced to like it.  
  
I light a cigarette. I'm down to the last three of the pack, so I try to make this one last. It's hard.  
  
Trying to make it last, that is.  
  
"That's a nasty habit," Sonic drawls. He's munching on his third chili dog. Ah, the ancient standard. Despite the silly jokes that surround him, and the overall cheesiness of actually saying he's eating his favorite food, it is true. At least from what my shattered vision can tell.  
  
My head is getting worse. This is all beginning to bring me down. What you've heard is all too true—it's impossible to imagine the kind of grief for a friend you feel when something like this happens. You feel like it's your fault. Like everything is because of you. And you know it could and probably will happen again—the problem is, you haven't a clue where, when, or why, and you're powerless to stop it.  
  
I don't need that kind of stress. On top of discovering that there's something about Rouge, I can't take the pressure. It's all asking me for too much resolve.  
  
"Take it out, hedgehog," I grumble, noticing his eyes are bloodshot again. His hair is unkempt, his face bristly and unshaven. I suspect he planned to shave and shower today, but forgot. It certainly isn't the stress of the situation getting him down.  
  
I have no right or need to blame him. About the drugs, that is. Tell the truth, I could use some of that good shit right about now.  
  
He takes the stub of a joint out of his mouth and discreetly gets rid of it.  
  
"Jesus, I was only kidding," I say, looking at the trash can, then at him. "You really did have something in your mouth! You're an addict."  
  
"Speak for yourself, mister Marlboro."  
  
"Crack!"  
  
"Tar!"  
  
"Cram it, both of you," Miles snaps. Sonic gives him a brush-slap across the top of the head. I don't think he was being playful this time. Sonic really is like a father to him. A drunken, crack-sniffing excessive gambler father. Poor example, which is already beginning to show in the offspring. Miles' eyes have a tint of pink.  
  
Not that I can talk, I think, as I inhale more tobacco. I hate to think what this is doing to my lungs.  
  
I see Rouge wander in, sheltering Amy under her arms and patting her arm and stroking her shoulder and saying useless things like 'there, there' and 'it's okay now'.  
  
Amy is crying. I didn't notice at first. She has little tears running down the side of her cheek.  
  
She sees all of us, then suddenly starts bawling. She collapses into Sonic, who at first is repelled.  
  
"Hey! I—"  
  
"Sonic," Rouge snaps sharply through her gritted fangs. He stops struggling and reluctantly pats her shoulder and so forth. No feeling.  
  
What a jackoff. This guy has no knowledge of the girl. Yet she knows his favorite condiment. Ass. Doesn't give her nearly the attention she deserves. But I already told you that.  
  
His tolerance has reached zero. The bullet of the situation has shattered his playful charade. Even though he doesn't like her, I can tell he takes advantage of her. I'm starting to suspect HIM.  
  
"I… was… so… scared!" she chokes out between sobs, crushing the blue man's shoulder under herself. How old is she now, fourteen, fifteen?  
  
Barely at the entrance hall to pre-pubescence.  
  
And already she's had some skoaty old fuck ram his metaphor up her young, fragile little euphemism. I should probably stop using figures of speech. The situation has far since broken the restricted seventeen barrier.  
  
"Give her here," I mouth to Sonic. He shrugs.  
  
"HERE," I say, louder. He nods in understanding and contemplates a method of passing her over before she notices.  
  
"Don't you want to sit down?" Rouge asks, taking Amy by the shoulder.  
  
She attempts for a moment to stand up. Really tries.  
  
But then her knees buckle. She collapses into tears again.  
  
I nimbly grab her wrist and pull her toward me. I wrap my right arm around her midriff and stroke her cheek with my left.  
  
"You're safe with us now," I say. I gently caress the side of her soft, milky face.  
  
It takes about two seconds. Her tears subside, and she leans into me, quietly sobbing internally. But making no noise for us.  
  
Damn, I'm good.  
  
"Do you want any food?" Rouge asks her. I wouldn't have a clue what to ask. I seem to have calmed her down, however.  
  
She nods slowly. She can't make out any words. Poor girl.  
  
"Give us a… hmm… Knuckles, what does she usually have?"  
  
She's asking  
  
"Me of all people."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Sonic… what—"  
  
"A number five," I suddenly blurt from out of nowhere. I didn't even say that. My mouth just moved.  
  
Rouge hesitates for a moment. She then orders a number five combo. I think that is a double cheeseburger. Insert the equivalent of your favorite McDonald's value meal here.  
  
I don't think Amy looks to be in the mood for eating. Or even being out here in the open. As opposed to safe at home, with her parents.  
  
"Have you called the cops yet?" Sonic asks. She says nothing. "Hey. Have you?"  
  
"No, she just said thank you and let them be. Of course she called the cops, dumbass."  
  
"Go smoke a cigarette."  
  
"Go sniff some crack."  
  
"Hey. I don't sniff. You know that."  
  
What a pathetic comeback. It completely failed to get the point across, unfortunately for him.  
  
I think he could care less about Amy. I think it's more his source of putang he's worried about.  
  
He returns to nursing his meal. I return to nursing the girl. She shifts uncomfortably. Mission failed.  
  
"Should she even be out here in public?" I ask. "I'd think she's be a little shaky right now. Maybe we should take her home."  
  
She shakes her head furiously, refusing to leave.  
  
"Responsible parenting decision," Sonic mutters under his breath.  
  
"Choke it."  
  
"No."  
  
He's not himself today.  
  
"When did this happen?"  
  
"About four days ago, Knux," Rouge answers.  
  
"Oh. Does—"  
  
Wait a second.  
  
Four days?  
  
"Four days?"  
  
"Yes…"  
  
"Ro… wasn't she… she was fine yesterday! At Starbucks!"  
  
"You two met up at Starbucks?" Sonic asks suspiciously.  
  
"Yeah, and it was like fucking magic. Get a girlfriend."  
  
He is quashed. He looks as if he is about to light a joint.  
  
Rouge gives me a quizzical look. As if she is preparing to address an idiot.  
  
"Knuckles, that was at least four days ago. It's Friday."  
  
I could have, should have, would have guessed. I have either been passed out in an alleyway for half a week, or I lost my memory and I don't recall what I had for dinner. I can't bet on either because they both sound likely.  
  
I can't, don't, won't say anything. Because I know that I wasn't there for her. I could have been. But I wasn't.  
  
I wasn't there when Amy was brutally raped. What does that say about me?  
  
That I'm like all other people, really. But I still hate myself.  
  
"Do the police suspect anyone?" Sonic asks.  
  
"Not yet," Rouge answers. "They're looking into it, but they can't tell us anything. Or won't."  
  
She seems to know exactly what I was thinking. I sense Amy becoming shaky again. I stroke her cheek again and hold her close. I bury my ashamed head in her shoulder.  
  
I could get used to this. But I know I'd just get separation anxiety later.  
  
Right now I am, for the third time, hoping that this is just a hallucination just a dream. And that really I'm back in that alleyway, or even back at Rouge's house.  
  
But, unfortunately for Amy, for me, for all of us, this is all too real.  
  
"Have they questioned her yet?" Sonic asks. Man, he's taking an interest in this!  
  
"No," Rouge answers. "They're going to call her."  
  
"What about her parents? Don't they think she should be back home?"  
  
Rouge looks sullen for a moment, as does Miles.  
  
I'm sorry I asked.  
  
"So… where does she live?"  
  
Once again, I'm sorry I asked. Amy begins to cry again.  
  
I whisper quiet to her and tug softly at a lock of her hair. She reflexively retaliates, flailing around angrily.  
  
"Oh, hey, stop—Amy!"  
  
She looks ready to scream. She stops flailing for a moment, but still looks terrified.  
  
She stares at me, her eyes hollow and terribly blank. She quivers, drawing the eyes of others in the room.  
  
She stares into my eyes for a moment, and quivers harder.  
  
"No… stop… stop it! Don't…"  
  
"Hey, it's alright," I say, gently putting my hand on her shoulder as the others watch. This is my test. My exam.  
  
"Stop! Please, please—"  
  
"Amy, calm down!"  
  
The sharpness in my voice startles her.  
  
She leaps from my lap and cowers under the table after letting out a well- placed yelp.  
  
I'm not very popular in here.  
  
I wince at the pain of bullets riddling my body from all directions at once. The windows crash down, as do I.  
  
Then all is normal again.  
  
The stares of the other customers have gone from patient to sympathetic to angry at me. Such is the power that I bleed from the right hand.  
  
My mistake. That is only the bandage I'm wearing.  
  
Amy cowers even more. Rouge, the only person she seems to trust, kneels down to help her up.  
  
"Maybe I should take her for a bit," she suggests, housing Amy's shivering figure under her arms. Amy is blithering like a madwoman.  
  
I can't imagine what it must have been like to produce this kind of effect.  
  
Sonic, unfortunately for his reputation, seems all too interested in the current status of the investigation.  
  
"Have they taken any evidence?  
  
"When will they interrogate someone, you think?"  
  
"Do they know how it happened?"  
  
"Have they seen the scene of the crime?"  
  
"Any clues at all?"  
  
"Anything at all, marks, cuts,bruises…?"  
  
"?"  
  
"??"  
  
"???"  
  
"?!?!?!?!?!?!"  
  
Most of you would think he was just worried. I know better.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
I realize what I have done.  
  
***  
  
Inconsiderate. One of the many words that turns up, rather often at that, during the aftershock of a sexual offense.  
  
In this case, however, we're not talking about the perp.  
  
We're not. Or we aren't. I could have said either.  
  
You care.  
  
I mention this, I bother to point out this contraction, because at the moment, someone we all know is trying to make one.  
  
"What do you mean, no time?"  
  
I'm talking with Sonic, an hour or so later. Amy's watch says it's eleven thirty am when I realize I haven't returned it yet.  
  
"See this watch. Look. TIME. Plenty of it."  
  
"Not that simple, Knux," Sonic states simply enough to be ironic.  
  
"Sonic… it's very simple, okay? Amy equals too young to drive. Amy equals YOUR admirer. Amy equals RAPED. Look, I don't even have to do arithmetic."  
  
"Lot of equations there."  
  
"Look, Sonic—this is just slightly more important than whatever the fuck you happen to being doing today, all right?"  
  
"Job interview," he says. "Me equals fired. Me equals low on funds. Me equals in need of a new job. Today equals only day I can do this before someone else get s it. Fair enough?"  
  
"No, NOT fair enough," I say. "Look at her."  
  
We both turn to look at Amy. Rouge is still sitting with her outside the shop, trying to calm her down. She nearly jumps out of her skin every time someone passes. Amy that is.  
  
"Need I bring in exhibit B?"  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"The fact that you're supposed to be her friend. Any need for exhibit C?"  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"The fact that if you don't do this, you're going to look like a fucking heel."  
  
He looks around.  
  
"I guess I'll just have to be an ankle then. One of you guys can take her. As for me, I've got an interview to sit."  
  
And that's it.  
  
He just strolls off.  
  
That's all.  
  
I stand there, dumfounded.  
  
I smash my fist against the lamppost. I hurt myself. I can't believe Amy is stuck like this. I can't believe she fell in love with… THAT.  
  
Of course, I'm just a guy. So what would I know?  
  
"That man is…"  
  
I walk over to Rouge. She asks "Is what?" without looking up from Amy, who is still white as concrete. Difficult for her.  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"So will he take her?"  
  
"No," I say. Simple. Flat. Effective. Rouge looks disappointed.  
  
"Oh well…"  
  
Oh well? Is that all she can say?  
  
Oh well?  
  
"I guess I'll take her then," Rouge says. "Haven't got a car… I know the way, though. Been there enough times."  
  
It pains me to think why.  
  
"Can I go with you?" I ask. How subtle.  
  
"Sure," she says, again without looking up. She smiles. But then it immediately returns to a frown as she remembers where we are going.  
  
She gets up.  
  
We spend a couple of minutes helping Amy up, who seems to have fallen asleep.  
  
Or passed out.  
  
At last, however, we're done.  
  
We begin our long walk.  
  
Long walk to the police station.  
  
Nothing new.  
  
*** 


	12. Swabbing

There are two reasons this chapter is up early.  
  
1) Since the story is nearly over and people seem to like it so much, I'm officially shortening the update time to every other day. I want to get this done so I can leave it and get some homework done.  
  
2) I'm going about four hours north and may not be able to use my internet, so I possibly won't be able to update.  
  
Thanks for all your… um… patience, or something similar to that.  
  
Anyway, enough babbling. Chapter twelve is sitting there. Read it I say! :P  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER TWELVE  
  
SWABBING  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
I realize what I have done.  
  
Where I should be.  
  
***  
  
Sigh.  
  
"Are you her support?"  
  
The desk clerk looks me over. I'm dirty, probably smelly, my hair is a mess. I'm wearing leather gloves that I found in a dumpster and a jacket with a torn seam and a missing button or two, my shoes are beaten and worn. I look poor, and evil, with a cynical yet nonchalant scowl of an expression. And to top it all off, I've still got a cigarette stuck in my mouth. I do not look like someone who is here to support a raped child.  
  
"No…"  
  
"Then I'm sorry, I can't let you come in."  
  
"Yes you can."  
  
"No, sir, I can't."  
  
Sigh.  
  
"We're her parents," Rouge comes to my rescue. She appears after waiting for Amy to finish in the toilet. It's taken her about an hour. She's not on her period or anything.  
  
Don't be gross. That's the LAST thing she'd be doing.  
  
I am startled not only at Rouge's sudden reappearance, but also at her ease to refer to me as her husband. Why the hell would she even want to PRETEND to be married to me?  
  
"Yeah," I agree dumbly, rubbing my head. I couldn't have just heard her say that.  
  
I don't get it. I haven't been getting any weird delusions lately. Maybe that's a good thing.  
  
But it's odd. It's like one could just pop out at any second, and I won't be ready for it.  
  
"In that case," the clerk says, sniffing like a snooty bitch. Obviously she thinks I'm an irresponsible father, and Amy is adopted. We certainly don't look the sorts to parent a hedgehog.  
  
She looks on her computer catalogue.  
  
"Ah yes… Rose… good lord," she says sympathetically. "She must be traumatized."  
  
To say the fucking least.  
  
"Yeah," I state flatly. I still look smelly, dirty, and unqualified to be a parent. And bridging nineteen. Obviously Amy is adopted. The clerk gives me that look again.  
  
We are led down a series of hallways by another officer.  
  
"Which one of you is going in with her?"  
  
Of course. She's here for questioning.  
  
"Her," I point to Rouge before she can say me. I can't bear to go in there with her and listen to what this freak did to her. It'll be a bit much on my fragile character.  
  
Ha, me fragile compared with her. More like my cigarettes will stink up the room.  
  
Rouge gives me a look. Then she is led into another room, and I am left outside.  
  
Oh well. It'll be a few hours.  
  
I head off down the hallway. But someone stops me.  
  
"Hey, pops. Where are you going?"  
  
"Uh…"  
  
"Over here. We can watch them."  
  
"I don't want to foul up the room," I say, drawing a cig like a weapon. It's my last one.  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
"Hell, it can't be as bad as what I'm used to. Sergeant cigaring his ass off all the time. Come on."  
  
I am led off—but into a different room altogether.  
  
In this room, it is different.  
  
It is like an office. There are a few desks, a file cabinet or two, and a few more officers in there. Likely a couple of special victims unit people or something. Miles has an amazing knowledge of this kind of thing.  
  
"The lucky father," one of them says morbidly.  
  
"Must be horrified."  
  
"Traumatized."  
  
There's that word again.  
  
"To say the least," I say, taking a seat. "Can't be shit compared to what she's gone through, though, can it?"  
  
"Amen to that."  
  
I notice that there is a TV. We're all looking at it.  
  
Watching the game, havin' a bud. Now?  
  
Nice way to pass the time, but…  
  
Wait.  
  
This isn't a TV.  
  
This is a monitor.  
  
We're watching the next room. We're watching Amy.  
  
"Isn't this a bit… rude?" I ask. I'm so dumb.  
  
"Naw," replies one of the cops.  
  
"This way we can see what's going on with your daughter. It helps us."  
  
"Everyone knows about the two-way mirror. This isn't much different."  
  
If you say so. I find it an invasion of privacy, thank you very much.  
  
Like the blue man said, though—if the world were going to worry about its privacy, there wouldn't be police to begin with.  
  
Amy and Rouge are already sitting down, attempting to get Amy settled in, as is another officer, apparently a child specialist. I don't know what they're called. Sue me.  
  
The important thing is that it's a man. Bad choice. That isn't anything compared to finding out they have to intrusively swab her twat for evidence.  
  
My ass. Perverts, the whole lot of them. What could you possibly find in her hole that could help an investigation?  
  
"Hello, Amy," he says. "How are you feeling?"  
  
I'd make a comment, but the redundancy would defeat the purpose. I'll let you do it.  
  
She doesn't answer.  
  
"Amy?"  
  
"She's a little shaken, officer," Rouge informs the man.  
  
"I should think so."  
  
"Coffee?" asks one of the guys in the room. I accept gratefully.  
  
"Won't say no to a donut if you've got any," I add.  
  
"Fresh out, sorry."  
  
Right.  
  
There's a bit of a silence on screen.  
  
"Well, Amy. My name is Mark. I'm going to be your chaperone while we find out who did this to you. I'm just going to ask you a few questions, get some samples, and then we'll be done."  
  
"You realize if you guys swab her twat it could trigger a relapse?" I want to say. However, I do not try to sound intelligent when I am not. I'll leave that up to Rouge.  
  
"She's not an idiot," I state. "She has a vocabulary."  
  
"The guy always does this," one of the guys says.  
  
"Can you say in-vest-ee-gay-shun?"  
  
"In-vest-ee-gate," I correct.  
  
Amy nods.  
  
"Good…"  
  
"And they're off," one guy jokes. Nobody laughs.  
  
"How old are you, Amy?"  
  
She hesitates. Rouge pats her shoulders. Amy's,that is.  
  
"F… four…fourteen," Amy answers at last, stammering like mad.  
  
"Okay… when's your birthday?"  
  
She stammers out her birthdate. I light my last cigarette.  
  
"Hey, put that thing out," a guy says.  
  
"Sorry," I say, damping the end and sticking it back in the pack. Still good.  
  
"Have one of these," he says, tossing me a cigar.  
  
"Gee… thanks." Maybe they're not so bad. Maybe.  
  
What am I saying? Why are these guys bad?  
  
I shouldn't get so hung up on pelvic swabbing.  
  
Then again, I can predict her yelping and screaming as loud as she can. I can see it happening now.  
  
"Wait… what's going on?" I ask. I'm ready to burst in their and kick the crap out of that schnapperone or whatever he's called if I need to.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Look at her, she's horrified!"  
  
"She's been like that since she got here. Nothing different."  
  
"Wait, no! It's—"  
  
The view returns to normal. She's just being questioned.  
  
I rub my head. Maybe all this tobacco is frying my brain.  
  
Maybe not.  
  
"Good… where do you go to school?"  
  
I don't hear the name very well. She's mumbling.  
  
"Have you got a lot of friends?"  
  
She nods weakly. Rouge pats her again.  
  
I know what he's doing. He's trying to make a list of suspects. I'll fucking shelf the whole lot of them if I have to.  
  
I imagine myself flooring an entire lineup one by one.  
  
"Are there people that don't like you as well?"  
  
She nods.  
  
"Okay… is there anybody you can think of who might want to hurt you?"  
  
She runs through her mind, and draws a blank.  
  
"All right… is there anyone you talked to or saw recently? Anyone suspicious that might not like you?"  
  
Wrong choice of words. More likely this happened because someone liked her too much.  
  
I consider pointing this out to the other officers, but there wouldn't be a point.  
  
"It… it could have been Daniel."  
  
Isn't progress wonderful?  
  
Daniel. Skinny little asshole, messy brown hair, ripped jeans. Thinks he's all that. As it were. Truth be told he's a geeky little weirdo. Obviously Amy knows that.  
  
How did I find this out? She told us a moment later. Not in my words, of course.  
  
"Who's he?"  
  
See above.  
  
"S… someone in my class," Amy answers.  
  
"Why would he want to hurt you?"  
  
Hurt.  
  
I wish he'd say it straight.  
  
Say it with me. Rape. Rape. Rrrrrraaaaaaaapes of wrath. Heard through the rapevine.  
  
"Be…because… he asked me out."  
  
"And what did you say?"  
  
Date rape? Or grudging obsession?  
  
Grudge. If it was him.  
  
The chaperone marks off some stuff on his clipboard and puts down the name of the first possible suspect.  
  
"Anybody else?"  
  
She runs through a few people.  
  
Then we strike the rule of the least expected culprit.  
  
"It could have been Sonic," she says. Rouge doesn't do anything, but I know she's surprised.  
  
"Sonic?" I ask quietly.  
  
I can't tell.  
  
Is she catching on?  
  
Or losing her mind?  
  
"Why would Sonic have done this?" the chaperone asks. I think he knows who Sonic is. Sonic, the famous terrorist situations expert. The one who didn't do much, just save the world from total annihilation every now and then, nothing major.  
  
I think the chaperone is about to accuse Amy of being insane.  
  
Like her father.  
  
"He's still only a man," I say. The other officers look at me, and then nod in agreement.  
  
"Totally."  
  
"Could've been anyone."  
  
"Even him."  
  
I nod. I wheeze on the cigar.  
  
"I… I said no," she says.  
  
"No to what?"  
  
"We… we went out…"  
  
"You should be proud, dad," one of the officers says.  
  
"Your daughter dating a celebrity."  
  
"Your daughter dating THAT celebrity."  
  
"Hardly," I say, spitting out a cloud of noxious fumes. These things aren't half bad.  
  
"And…" she continues. "He… he asked me to… to…"  
  
"To have sex with you?"  
  
"Yeah," Amy blurts out, going pale. The word sex doesn't have a positive impact on her at this point.  
  
"And you said no?"  
  
"Yeah," she answers.  
  
"Have you done it with him before?"  
  
"No."  
  
Rumbled.  
  
Amy was slash is obviously not his source of pussy.  
  
Amy was slash is his source of saliva.  
  
If you know slash knew what I mean.  
  
The chaperone writes down another suspect.  
  
I think they're wrapping up now.  
  
"Amy, we're going to need to take your clothing for evidence," the officer says. "Is that what you were wearing when it happened?"  
  
Why would she be WEARING something?  
  
Amy nods after some consideration. The chaperone looks happy.  
  
"We have to take it for evidence… we have another set of clothes for you while we take it."  
  
"But… but this is my favorite dress," she protests weakly, grabbing onto the opening at the bottom protectively.  
  
It shouldn't be her favorite now.  
  
It's dirty.  
  
"I'm sorry, Amy, but we have to take it."  
  
"No," she argues.  
  
"Amy…"  
  
"NO!"  
  
She leaps from the chair and cowers in a corner.  
  
"I've seen enough," I say, leaving, with the cigar still in my mouth.  
  
"Hey, pops, where are you going?"  
  
"Watch the game," I say.  
  
A few minutes later they see me walk into the room.  
  
They see me pick up the chaperone by the throat.  
  
They see me slam his head against the wall.  
  
They see me snap his neck practically in half, and let his crumpled form fall to the floor in a heap.  
  
They see a squad of officers rushing in and beating me to a bloody pulp with their batons.  
  
Is there even a point to describing these needs? These wants? These desires?  
  
Because they don't happen. Sometimes I wish they'd happen.  
  
But they don't happen.  
  
"Amy, Amy," I say, taking her hand.  
  
She shivers and whimpers, crying from the intrusive demand. If you can even call it that.  
  
She begins to calm down.  
  
"No swabbing," I say harshly.  
  
"Of course."  
  
I look into her scared eyes, and wish I could tell her how much I hate what this bastard has done to her.  
  
The things he may have left inside her.  
  
The things he's forever changed about her.  
  
If I ever find out who it is, I vow to do something to him.  
  
Something he'll never recover from.  
  
Something for revenge. 


	13. Another short relapse

***  
  
CHAPTER THIRTEEN  
  
ANOTHER SHORT RELAPSE  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
I realize what I have done.  
  
Where I should be.  
  
I realize that the first was not a scream of delight. It was a roar of anger and fear.  
  
***  
  
"We make pretty good parents," I say quietly. I don't expect a reply.  
  
Rouge and I are walking down the hallway again, a couple of hours later.  
  
"I guess," she says. There does not appear to be any enthusiasm.  
  
Why would there be?  
  
Try and imagine yourself as the mother of my child, living with me in the sky. If I haven't emphasized enough yet what kind of hell that is by now, then either I'm doing something wrong, or you're not really paying attention.  
  
"Yeah, I know," I say. I want to light the last cigarette, but I know I'll need it later.  
  
I admit it. I'm a dependent.  
  
She gives me a look, but nothing else before turning away.  
  
"Post traumatic stress disorder," she says.  
  
Like I'd know what that means?  
  
"What?"  
  
"Post traumatic stress disorder," she says. "That's why she couldn't remember anything that happened. She's suffering from memory loss due to the trauma of the whole experience."  
  
"Rouge… I never went to school." It doesn't always show.  
  
She gives me a brief description of the meanings allocated to post, traumatic, stress, disorder, and the system of memory loss due to the above words, as well as Amy's peculiar and overly defensive actions.  
  
"So… she doesn't remember everything? All that information wasn't completely reliable?"  
  
"I guess not."  
  
Fuck. That means we may need to start all over again.  
  
"Do you know when she might recover?" I ask.  
  
"It could take anywhere between three hours to four months. Quite possibly longer."  
  
"In other words, you don't know."  
  
"Nail on the head."  
  
I curse to myself and resist the temptation to light the last fag.  
  
"Here," Rouge says, drawing a fresh pack from her purse.  
  
"You smoke?"  
  
"No."  
  
She hands me the packet. I look at it like it is some sacred artifact handed me by God himself as a gift. I don't know what to say.  
  
This is a strong token, here. Not just a packet of fags. She knows my brand, filtered or unfiltered, number (the highest possible), flavor. She observed. She went to the trouble to notice.  
  
"Thanks," I say, immediately tearing the plastic cover and drawing one. I light it with the fourth to last match, tasting, feeling the foul smelling, disgusting and yet beautifully fragranced cloud of tobacco and nicotine sweep through my lungs like the breath of life. It'll kill me one of these days. Their loss.  
  
"Welcome," she says, taking a seat.  
  
"What are they doing now?" I say, not sitting. I take a long breath of the tobacco in, savoring the calming effect.  
  
"Getting her a change of clothes. They have to take the old ones for evidence."  
  
"Hasn't she changed?"  
  
"Not as far as I know. She wouldn't have if she doesn't live with her parents, would she?"  
  
"Good point and well made, bat girl…"  
  
"Thank you, treasure hunter."  
  
I cringe. I hate that name.  
  
Yet I love the way she says it.  
  
I think I'm starting to love something else, too.  
  
"I have to go," I say, not wanting to fall into the trap.  
  
Once I fall for her, that's it. She's gone. I'll probably maul her in my sleep by the end of the week. Can't, won't let it happen.  
  
"Wherever could you be going now?" she asks, looking disappointed with me. Not being here for my daughter.  
  
"She's not my daughter, Rouge," I say, breathing in the cigarette and trying, for the first time in my life, to look dramatic.  
  
She frowns. "All right… I'll get back to you with whatever comes up, okay?"  
  
"All right."  
  
I really do have to go, Rouge. Because if I don't, the fact that I'm tearing your soft, milky skin to shreds with a razor as you pull your ringing cellphone from your purse may become a reality for you, too.  
  
I leave quietly.  
  
Amy screams from beyond the corridors.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
I realize what I have done.  
  
Where I should be.  
  
I realize that the first was not a scream of delight. It was a roar of anger and fear.  
  
I realize the second was not that of the familiar orgasmic moan. It was that of a painful, exhausted groan of agony as I discover where this sudden lubrication has come from.  
  
  
  
***  
  
Two days later. I've been sleeping next to a dumpster—I'd sleep in the big warm thing, but the other hobo already bagged it.  
  
I'm taking a long walk to clear my head, and my sinuses.  
  
I inhale more noxious gas into my overworked lungs. The pleasurable calming helps me think.  
  
So it's come to this.  
  
I'm going insane.  
  
Sonic is unemployed and on drugs. Miles is obviously taking it up too.  
  
Rouge is working in a strip club.  
  
Nobody has seen the Chaotix in years.  
  
And Amy's just been raped at fourteen by some ghetto pervert.  
  
I chuckle to myself sardonically.  
  
Isn't it pathetic?  
  
Isn't it pitiful what our lives have become?  
  
Look back. We were heroes. We were idolized. We were on top of everything and everyone.  
  
And now we're just the below average Joe. We're victims. Victims of society's sleaze and lack of moral values.  
  
What are we going to do?  
  
God help us.  
  
I wonder how Sonic and his interview went. He of course completely overlooked the fact that he can run at faster than Mach 1. Or so he tells us. Maybe this interview just happened to coincide with the questioning. But who gives a damn?  
  
Not him, obviously.  
  
"I love life," I say to myself sarcastically, throwing away the stub. It'll probably cause a fire, but I don't really give a shit.  
  
I pass by Starbucks. Nobody of interest inside today. Nor at the burger shop.  
  
I pass by a school and see a large clock above the rest of the brick buildings.  
  
It says 3:00. A bell goes off. A few seconds later, students come stampeding out of buildings, nearly trampling me to get to the bus. Only nearly.  
  
There's Miles.  
  
"Tails," I say, grabbing him by the ruff of his neck. He stops, nearly falling over and letting out a gagging sound.  
  
"Hi, Knuckles… *choke*"  
  
"Where are you off to?"  
  
"Um… I'm supposed to meet Sonic, we're going somewhere tonight."  
  
Joy. I'll find out what was so fucking important as to have him leave his position as a surrogate father and boyfriend.  
  
Of course, I don't have to own the modern appliance of an ego to know that I better fill the position anyway.  
  
"Any idea about his new job?" I ask.  
  
"What new job?"  
  
"Didn't he tell you?"  
  
"Wait… he's not going to work at that…"  
  
As I'm sure I don't want to offend you, seeing as you could be anything in terms of occupation, I shall let you choose a pathetic, quick-grab-for-cash job that you think suits the blue man.  
  
I wince.  
  
That IS pretty pathetic.  
  
"Sounds fun," I say. "How were you planning on meeting him?"  
  
"Well… I suppose I could walk with you."  
  
"I didn't make you miss the bus, did I?"  
  
"No, of course not." He's lying. Nicse kid.  
  
"Anybody else going?" I ask as we begin our walk.  
  
"I don't know," he answers. "I guess Rouge is going, but I don't remember."  
  
Ah, of course. The cellphone call.  
  
"Lead the way," I say quietly. I want to smoke a cigarette, but there's no point now, so I don't.  
  
I can't believe I'm this addicted.  
  
"How's school?" I ask.  
  
"I got made fun of a lot today," Miles says. "People kept dissing me because Amy got raped."  
  
"Why would they do that?" I tease. He goes red.  
  
"Because… um… well… because…!"  
  
"I figured it out two years ago, Tails."  
  
"Figured what out?"  
  
"Cut the crap, Tails! You have a crush on Amy."  
  
He goes tomato.  
  
"Do not."  
  
"Tails… you're 13. Of course you have a crush on someone! What, you wanna be ten all your life?"  
  
He goes crimson.  
  
"Well… yeah. That's why."  
  
"Why not fucking hook them? They deserve it."  
  
"I don't know how," he says.  
  
Pitiful.  
  
"That's not a bad thing, but you should at least know how to stick up for yourself. Didn't Sonic ever teach you to fight?"  
  
"No…"  
  
"Well, I am," I say, stopping him.  
  
"What—"  
  
I draw back my fist and throw it toward his cheek as hard as I can.  
  
It stops mere millimeters before his face.  
  
"See… now, if you want to really get them, you have to curve your punch, like this."  
  
"Uh huh…" he draws back his own fist and heaves it weakly toward my shoulder. I am punched. I wince, but it doesn't really hurt.  
  
"Call that a punch! See, you do this…"  
  
I take a step back and cannon my balled hand toward his stomach, stopping an inch or so away.  
  
"Always go for the stomach, then the face. It works. Then, if you have time, kick them in the nuts on their way down."  
  
"Only sissies do that," he says.  
  
"Not if you want to live, kid."  
  
He nods and tries to kick me in the shin. I easily dodge.  
  
"Here… try to block this."  
  
I am about to throw another punch, but I am stopped by a teacher.  
  
"Absolutely unheard of! I shall have you reported to the police…"  
  
Miles is sitting against a wall, crying his eyes out and rubbing his cheek for the pain. There are a few angry adults and witnesses, as well as what appear to be Miles' friends, all giving me horrible looks.  
  
A teacher is standing before me, ranting and raving about the old days and the strap and how I had no place to punish him, and how I am so obviously not his father…  
  
Oh god.  
  
It all rushes into my head like some vile water pipe suddenly opened in my brain.  
  
Nothing after my first tutorial punch actually happened.  
  
I'll let you figure out the rest.  
  
It's the movie theatre all over again.  
  
"God… Tails, I'm so sorry…"  
  
I try to get closer to apologize, but I am stopped by his friends and well wishers. He doesn't even look at me. He can't for the tears.  
  
That's strike two, Knuckles. Strike three and you're gone.  
  
I'll make sure of it. 


	14. Dinner and sex Blurry

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Games » Sonic the Hedgehog » The Final Step text size: (+) : (-) Author: David Macintyre « » R - English - Angst/Drama - Reviews: 162 - Publish date: 03-08-02 - Updated: 09-09-02 story id: 644694  
  
***  
  
CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
  
DINNER AND SEX  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can--nay, will--get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done--but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about...  
  
Well, I'll tell you...  
  
I am having sex...  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
I realize what I have done.  
  
Where I should be.  
  
I realize that the first was not a scream of delight. It was a roar of anger and fear.  
  
I realize the second was not that of the familiar orgasmic moan. It was that of a painful, exhausted groan of agony as I discover where this sudden lubrication has come from.  
  
The door crashes down.  
  
***  
  
It was destined to be an uneventful meeting.  
  
Probably because I don't show up.  
  
I am too ashamed to show myself. I touch Sonic's dick, I punch out Miles. What next? I rape Amy?  
  
By some amazing coincidence, I happen to find the place where the others are meeting.  
  
I wait outside and eavesdrop their conversation, lighting a cigarette.  
  
Miles shows, Sonic asks him where he's been. Miles spills his guts all over the nice clean rug. Sonic sees me again and I'm fucking busted. He cracks his knuckles.  
  
Sonic's interview never took place. So he could've gone to the station instead.  
  
Shortly after, after the two have ordered their food, Rouge and Amy show up. Amy looks very sad. I wonder what she and Rouge have been doing in the last couple of days.  
  
I feel left out of a possible fivesome as the others move into a conversation. Rouge assists Amy in ordering her meal. I take a wheeze of the white cylinder.  
  
The others talk about crap I don't want to comprehend. Especially the stuff about me beating up Miles. Rouge looks displeased, but she does not make expletory comments like Sonic, who I have now decided I loathe as much as the island.  
  
Maybe that's going a bit far.  
  
Amy has some important news by the time her food arrives. I think the disorder has worn off.  
  
What I hear makes me want to kill myself for guilt. How could I let something like this happen right under my nose?  
  
Amy is not just a victim of rape.  
  
Amy was kidnapped, beaten, raped, and then left in an alley to starve or die.  
  
The person who did this to her did it for the sheer kicks of dominating another person, sexually abusing them, taking over their pelvic regions.  
  
The person who raped this fourteen year old girl was a horrible man, and I swear that if I ever find out who it is I deal him a fate much worse than death. I will send him back to the island in my place.  
  
All that hate in one package.  
  
And now she's carrying his child.  
  
That's it.  
  
For the first time in my life I feel like someone could come and shelf me with a brick, and I really wouldn't give a shit.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child...  
  
They talk about things like abortions, yet she refuses all of them. ALL of them. She wants this child.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child...  
  
The blue man looks unsettled, and so he should be. But there's something unusual about the look on his face.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child.  
  
She suggests the notion of testing the baby's DNA to find the killer. By then the culprit will have skipped town. She just wants the child.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child.  
  
Rouge says she'll take Amy back to the station for more questioning when she's ready. Amy looks scared and pale--but not so much as before.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child...!  
  
I want so much to help her. Hold her again. Comfort her. She doesn't deserve this. She's only a small child herself.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child...!  
  
But I can't.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child!  
  
Rouge comes outside after everyone else. I grab her from out of my hiding place--to the side of the doorway. I take her by surprise.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child!  
  
I pretend she's taken me by surprise. She tells me about everything. I sound surprised and act interested.  
  
Amy's carrying a rape child!!  
  
I look shocked, stunned, disgusted, horrified, scared, angry, sad, sympathetic, suicidal, pained, afraid, VENGEFUL all at once when I hear that  
  
AMY IS CARRYING A FUCKING RAPE CHILD!!!  
  
It's enough to drive a man mad.  
  
Too late.  
  
"Rouge... will you take me with you again?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I want to go to your place... but I don't want to go to the police station again, it's too depressing..."  
  
Rouge looks down, emotionally.  
  
She gives me her fanged bat smile.  
  
"Okay... I'm bringing Amy back to my place afterward, I can drop you off on the way to the station..."  
  
"Good with me. I won't touch anything."  
  
"Knuckles, how long has it been since you last ate?"  
  
I look away and inhale the cigarette.  
  
I haven't eaten in at least a week. I've gotten used to it. But the coffee has ruined my appetite, now I need food.  
  
"Only a day or two," I say.  
  
"Help yourself," she says, beginning to walk and taking my hand.  
  
"Where's Amy?"  
  
Rouge retrieves Amy from a bench. Amy looks at her feet.  
  
We walk for awhile. We look just like a family.  
  
I like it like this.  
  
Me. Rouge. And Amy.  
  
I imagine us all back on the island. Rouge wrestles her tongue into my mouth before I return to reality.  
  
I don't want something like that to happen to them.  
  
It's not fair to them.  
  
It's a long walk.  
  
"Rouge..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
I contemplate what I'm going to say...  
  
"Rouge... Um..."  
  
"You can tell me anything," she says, not looking at me, instead stroking Amy's head comfortingly.  
  
"Rouge... I... would you... have you ever..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Come back to the island with me," I blurt out, quite unprepared and with quite a different result from what I had wanted.  
  
She looks stunned. We stop for a moment.  
  
She looks angry and overwhelmingly happy at the same time. It's hard to pick out which one she is feeling more.  
  
"I'll... think about it," she says.  
  
Suddenly I'm back at her place.  
  
Nothing happened. Well, stuff happened, but in my mind. Nothing major, I only screwed Rouge in the middle of a crowded street, Amy joined in, and then suddenly I came to in Rouge's apartment. Nothing major.  
  
I'm sitting on the edge of her bed smoking a cigarette as the events of the day and night come rushing back into my mind.  
  
I think I arrived at Rouge's apartment on my own, she directed the way. I went inside, figured out how to turn on the newfangled TV from 1989, and then immediately lost control and started eating.  
  
I think I consumed a large amount of food, but left enough to last her another week or so. If she likes leftovers. I thought I would try to explain that I was very hungry. I thought she'd understand. I think she did.  
  
I hate to be greedy. But it has been a month since I have had what you can actually call a meal. Cigarettes do not feed the stomach, only the impulse system.  
  
I think I rested on the couch for awhile, digesting my meal. I think I watched some TV for awhile. I think I decided I had eaten too much, too fast in too long and loudly threw up into Rouge's toilet. I think I flushed it after a minute or so of trying to figure it out. It still smells.  
  
I think slept on the couch for what seemed like an hour or so. I think Rouge arrived. I think I tried to kiss her openly on the lips and in the mouth. But I think Amy was nearby.  
  
I think Rouge looked rather shaken and frightened. I think she said they had made a breakthrough with Amy's memory, and she remembered some important details about the rape.  
  
I think Rouge showed me some cuts and scars on Amy's back. I think there were cuts made with what was apparently broken glass across her back. I think I was reminded of when I woke up in the alley.  
  
I think I felt hatred and dread, that this man had hurt her even more than we thought. I wouldn't be surprised if she became a lesbian after all of this. It would make more sense than anything. The idea of what this person did to her has likely washed the more enjoyable version from the Ôpleasure' pile in her head. Her wonderfully clear and straightforward head.  
  
I think Rouge told me that they had planned to get a DNA test on the baby. It was Amy's decision to keep it or not. I think she wanted to keep it.  
  
I think I felt like killing myself. Like it was all my fault. I wasn't there.  
  
I wasn't there.  
  
I think Rouge eventually took Amy home.  
  
I think I went into her room and lay on the bed.  
  
I think she came back about an hour later. I think she bought a condom.  
  
I think I was both pleased and horrified at the way this was going.  
  
I think sex was the last thing on my mind during all of this. During this whole rape ordeal.  
  
I think I decided I'd go through with it anyway.  
  
I think she sat down on the bed next to me. I think we lay there together for a few minutes, just talking.  
  
The events are starting to become more clear to me.  
  
Talking turned to kissing.  
  
Kissing turned to tongueing.  
  
Tongueing turned to throbbing.  
  
Throbbing turned to pushing.  
  
Rouge began to kiss me desperately. She reached behind her and flicked on the radio feature on her clock. A faint, but sufficient guitar riff began to play, rusted with static.  
  
She ran her tongue up my face, making me shudder. She ran her hand in and out of my thigh. The way she did in the theatre. But this time it feels even better.  
  
Fondling turned to undressing. She turned up the radio and I could hear some kind of garage band singer's voice drowning out our quieter actions for the convenience of the neighbors.  
  
[Everything's so blurry and everyone's so fake And everybody's empty and everything is so messed up]  
  
The unzipped the fly on the pair of jeans I stole from a street market. She ran her hand under and began to pull up the sleeveless white shirt I found at a laundromat.  
  
I struggled my tongue against hers, pulling off her jacket and vest. I ran my own hand up her side, cupping it under one of her soft breasts. So soft and warm. Like a pillow.  
  
[Preoccupied without you, I cannot live at all My whole world surrounds you, I stumble and I crawl]  
  
I massaged it as I used the other hand to pull off her thin sports bra, causing her to let out a soft moan. It's all so romantic.  
  
She slid her hand around below my waist. If I had a ruler handy I could tell you if I was very big or not, but I could tell from the look on her face that she was rather disappointed. Perhaps I was a half inch or so short. Maybe she expected more of me. I don't know.  
  
[You could be my someone, you could be my scene You know that I'll protect you from all of the obscene I wonder what you're doing, imagine where you are There's oceans in between us-- well that's not very far]  
  
The supposed disappointment didn't get in the way of her placing one hand against my chest and again making mouth the keyword. My head tilted upwards.  
  
I felt the proverbial wall beginning to crack. I told her. She lifted her head away and climbed up my front, thrusting her chest into my neck. I felt air pushed from my lungs from her weight as I stared into her cleavage. She let out another moan as her left synonym caressed my cheek.  
  
I stuck out my tongue and (from what I hear) skillfully ran it in between them. She let out more groans.  
  
[Can you take it all away Can you take it all away When you shoved it in my face This pain you gave to me]  
  
I saw her hand run down her front and felt left out. Something of a statement came out of it, but I suppose it shouldn't have bothered me.  
  
I rubbed her breasts again as she looked down into my crotch, moaning. She seemed suddenly surprised, as if maybe I was actually full this time. I am still, however, average at best. But I don't know. I'm not the expert. Use your imagination if it's that important.  
  
[Can you take it all away Can you take it all away When you shoved it in my face]  
  
Touching and caressing turned to penetration. She didn't bother with the contraception. Rouge, you don't want my child, trust me.  
  
[Everyone is changing, there's no one left that's real So make up your own ending and let me know just how you feel Cause I am lost without you, I cannot live at all My whole world surrounds you, I stumble and I crawl]  
  
Penetration turned to thrusting.  
  
[You could be my someone, you could be my scene You know that I will save you from all of the unclean I wonder what you're doing and I wonder where you are There's oceans in between us but that's not very far]  
  
Thrusting increased in groaning and grunting.  
  
Thrusting turned to pumping.  
  
Pumping turned to ramming.  
  
She was moaning rather loudly, squeezing the bedsheets. The wetness began to increase. It began to feel very oddly familiar.  
  
[CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY WHEN YOU SHOVED IT IN MY FACE THIS PAIN YOU GAVE TO ME CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY WHEN YOU SHOVED IT IN MY FACE THIS PAIN YOU GAVE TO ME]  
  
She moaned very loudly, threatening to wake the tenants opposite. Her cries to stop fell on deaf ears. We both felt it. I threw my hand over her mouth to silence her at hearing a loud thump from the wall next to us.  
  
I think we were done for the time being.  
  
[OHHHHH  
  
Nobody told me what you thought Nobody told me what to say Everyone showed you where to turn, Told you when to run away]  
  
She was so exhausted from my pace that she fell asleep almost instantly, grinning happily the whole way. This was not a hallucination. Come to think of it, I haven't been getting a lot of them lately.  
  
[Nobody told you where to hide Nobody told you what to say Everyone showed you where to turn SHOWED WHEN TO RUN AWAY]  
  
[CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY WHEN YOU SHOVED IT IN MY FACE THIS PAIN YOU GAVE TO ME CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY CAN YOU TAKE IT ALL AWAY WHEN YOU SHOVED IT IN MY FACE THIS PAIN YOU GAVE TO ME]  
  
Now I am sitting at the edge of her bed, smoking after sex. I've put my jeans and muscle shirt back on.  
  
I'm still wide awake. I've just lost my virginity. It has none of the usual psyche up that I hear about. I make it a point to tell Miles not to rush it.  
  
[NO! THIS PAIN YOU GAVE TO ME]  
  
I can't stay here like this for the rest of the night.  
  
I scrawl a little insurance note from a pad and paper next to the bed, in case I don't get back before she wakes up. I place it next to her, give her a kiss on the forehead, pull on my jacket and leave.  
  
[Can you take it all, Take it all away... This pain you gave to me...]  
  
I head out for a walk.  
  
[Take it all away... This pain you gave to me...]  
  
I will never forget tonight.  
  
I'll make sure of it.  
  
[Take it all away... This pain you gave to me....]  
  
*** 


	15. The final step

It's the last chapter—time for a rant!  
  
Frankly I'm amused and annoyed at the people telling me they didn't like the drug references, swearing, sex and/or violence in the story. I specifically stated that if you were going to be offended by anything linked to reality in this story, then you'd better leave—but no, people never read the foreword. Maybe they should. If you didn't like the drug references, you probably shouldn't read this chapter.  
  
Don't like the sex? I could care less. It was a plot point, not so much a lemon scene. I have decided to define lemon scenes as pieces written for the purpose of getting off, and sex scenes as those that actually have feasible implication into the story and were not written by someone logging down a fantasy. I have written sex scenes. And by the way I actually DID write the movie theatre one—I was just scared to admit it because I know the sort of retribution I'd get from people reading a sex scene in a non- lemon story.  
  
Object to the swearing? Tough shit. That's all I can say.  
  
What? You don't like violence? Ha! Ha, ha! Join the club.  
  
Anyway, I'm finished telling people to **** off… now for happy time! I'd like to thank all of you for taking time out of your busy lives to read my rant of a madness story. You all seemed to like it, which is good—although the one liner flames were pretty dumb. I admit I got some dumb positives as well, no names mentioned, but the negative ones were annoying really. A friend told me the flames were out of jealousy (such as the 'I hate you' one) and that they were one liners because they couldn't find anything wrong with the story—I love the compliment. Goes to show how much people can hate others for liking their thoughts or work. XD  
  
Last thing—Special thanks to:  
  
All my consultants, Sean and Stephen especially. You guys all rule.  
  
SEGA, for not suing my ass after they find this.  
  
Sonic Team, see above, and for creating the universe I tamper with.  
  
Anybody whose ideas were incorporated into the story at some point. Shadowcell, your moment is now!  
  
Knuckles, for being the media prostitute I needed to write this.  
  
Rouge, for being an even bigger one. XD  
  
Anything that eats cheese.  
  
All of you for actually reading this.  
  
Most of you for reviewing it.  
  
Thanks a lot.  
  
And now, my rant is finished—so, prepare your mind and don your thinking cap for the last chapter of The Final Step—in theatres now.  
  
***  
  
FINAL CHAPTER  
  
***  
  
HEY! You didn't read the rant, did you?! You'd better— cuz I might be talking about YOU. Druggie and topless girls ahead. You have been warned.  
  
***  
  
Horrible moment.  
  
Awful, churning realization.  
  
Last night I met up with Miles somewhere. My mind took over.  
  
I said I wanted to make up for smashing him earlier that day.  
  
He accepted. We went and got ourselves some soda and went for a walk. Another football chat.  
  
I asked him the usual things. How's school. How are your friends. How are you taking all of this… you know, the whole rape thing. Man, that must suck.  
  
I don't remember anything that happened after that.  
  
"Sure… I'll be game for that," he says with a grin.  
  
I only remember the scream of a young girl…  
  
"No… it's… it's you again! Help! Please!"  
  
A slash of a broken soda glass…  
  
*SRRRASH*  
  
The cowering of a young man who knows he has gone in over his head…  
  
"No… wait, this is too far! You never said you'd hurt her!"  
  
And the aggressive cries of an insane individual.  
  
"FUCK YOU!" he screamed before advancing at the boy with his glass.  
  
I know what happened, remember slowly as I sit here at the train station, waiting for my ride. I never went back to Rouge's apartment.  
  
I convinced Miles we'd go have a little fun. Sonic's influence on him made him agree. We'd go and give Amy a little fright. Just for a bit of fucking FUN.  
  
I don't want to hurt her.  
  
I never want to hurt anyone again.  
  
But too late.  
  
I've left my mark on her. I've left my horrible stench in this town and it shall live on forever. I must get rid of the source.  
  
I did it.  
  
It was me.  
  
I am guilty.  
  
I am the culprit.  
  
I am the one who did it.  
  
I am the perpetrator.  
  
I am the criminal.  
  
I am the vandal.  
  
I am the scoundrel.  
  
The wastrel.  
  
The horrible psychopath.  
  
I deduce that I have been guilty of my first crime for the past week. Of a second for the past day or so.  
  
How many other ways do I need to put it?  
  
I remember what Rouge told me.  
  
That Amy said she was raped by someone wearing a thick black coat and a ski mask, with black gloves.  
  
Sound familiar?  
  
Today she will be telling Rouge, Sonic and the others that may be that the perpetrator returned, still in ski mask, still with gloves, still in coat. Still with a broken bottle.  
  
It seems like I'm jumping to conclusions. But even if I didn't do it, I still went and slashed her. For the second time in a week. That's strike three. I can't break my promise.  
  
How do I know?  
  
There is blood all over my hands. And there is no cut under the bandage which I have been wearing for several days.  
  
It was HER blood. It can't possibly be anyone else's… can it? Does it really matter, though?  
  
I know I did it.  
  
And I must follow my vow.  
  
I vowed to exact revenge on whoever performed this atrocity on fourteen year old Amy Rose.  
  
And now I must.  
  
That's where I'm heading now.  
  
I did it.  
  
I have taken the final step.  
  
I have crossed the line into… dare I say it… criminally insane.  
  
Which is why I'm having such a problem with this crap in my hand, resisting the urge to cower in a corner and yell for mercy from the horrible things.  
  
I was right about Miles.  
  
He gave me a little sample last night.  
  
I took it in the assumption that it would make no difference on my already tainted head. I'd throw it into one of my cigs.  
  
God, I was wrong.  
  
It just got WORSE.  
  
I'm sitting on a train station bench. I've tripped on acid and I'm begging for someone to help me get up again.  
  
I'm twitching, convulsing madly. The things I see are so horrible, your worst nightmares don't even begin.  
  
Demons.  
  
My own demons. In physical form and living color.  
  
Twisting, grotesque wolfmen, ugly and scarred imps, demonically laughing and writhing in agonies of ecstasy, or vice versa.  
  
They howl at me, spit at me, bare their fangs. They are my demons. I know it. And now I must face them.  
  
I'll just look like I'm practicing for some form of grading anyhow. Look at the dude over there with the stereo, breakdancing for no apparent reason.  
  
I shelf one of them—I think. I uppercut into its jaw. Its head flies up, neck stretching. A moment later the body catches up, the skinny, red, scarred body. I can see every bone. That was probably my childhood fears. It's small and frightening, walking on all fours.  
  
I try to punch the next and make it look fancy by following through with a back kick. My sense of indignity.  
  
I am surrounded by them. I no longer have any will to fight. But if I sit down now, I will look stupid. I guess I don't really get rid of these things. I still feel humiliation.  
  
All of them bowing over me, snarling, spitting. Some huge, some tiny, all amazingly gory and bone chillingly grotesque. The background has started to fade into a dark flame color. Heavy music of some kind fills my ears.  
  
I cower down on the ground, looking like I'm rehearsing again. I'm so stupid!  
  
Wow, I'm yelling.  
  
And there it is.  
  
The most frightening one of all, as I see it. It looks just like me. Except that it is hideous, snarling, spitting, fangs, claws, huge GREEN, BONY fingers, GRASPING, PULLING, BEGGING AT ME, BECKONING, it APPROACHES WITH ITS HORRIBLE CLAWS TRYING TO PULL ME AND COERCE ME TOWARD ITSELF  
  
I CAN'T FIGHT IT  
  
IT'S TOO STRONG  
  
PULLING, GRABBING, GRASPING  
  
IT WANTS ME TO BECOME ONE  
  
WITH ITS HORRIBLE FEATURES  
  
BECKONING, SNARLING, DRAGGING AT ME  
  
NO MORE, NO MORE  
  
I CAN'T FIGHT IT ANYMORE  
  
IT  
  
IS  
  
MY  
  
INSANITY!  
  
And then suddenly it is gone. Swallowed by another familiar demon. Representing a person, a problem, and a solution. Rather, a person who is a problem but has a solution.  
  
And I have the answer.  
  
I know I've done it, as I slowly fade the demons out of my addled view.  
  
I know I did it.  
  
I raped Amy Rose.  
  
I should have seen it coming.  
  
And now I know what to do about it.  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
I realize what I have done.  
  
Where I should be.  
  
I realize that the first was not a scream of delight. It was a roar of anger and fear.  
  
I realize the second was not that of the familiar orgasmic moan. It was that of a painful, exhausted groan of agony as I discover where this sudden lubrication has come from.  
  
The door crashes down.  
  
Her romantic interest bursts into the room, bellowing like a rogue elephant.  
  
I unload before pulling out and assuming a stance. God I'm fast.  
  
***  
  
This one looks nice.  
  
This one is all nice and shiny.  
  
Oh, this one's big. Looks like it could do some serious damage. To me and others. I pick it, too.  
  
Hmm… I like this one. Looks like it could cause a lot of pain. To me and others. That one goes on the list.  
  
I want 'em all. It's all a matter of how many I can fit into my limited space.  
  
"This one."  
  
"That one."  
  
"I like this."  
  
"Give me this one."  
  
"I could kill some shit with this."  
  
I'm picking weapons.  
  
Serious damage to myself.  
  
"I certainly like this one."  
  
Now I'm picking my shells.  
  
"This one's pretty armored."  
  
"But this one has more room."  
  
"Can I have this one here, and this different one here? That'd look cool."  
  
Affirmative answer.  
  
"How are my hands going to be?"  
  
He shows me.  
  
Good, good. I'll hurt myself here.  
  
You think I'm buying guns, huh?  
  
That's part of it. But they're not for conventional use on myself.  
  
I'm going to kill myself with these.  
  
But not kill myself.  
  
I'll be dead.  
  
But I'll still be alive.  
  
Earth purgatory. Mortal limbo. No conscious thought.  
  
Problem: I have lost my rational mind. I have hurt most everyone I know in unthinkable and long term ways, and I want to stop the problem before I hurt her. The one I love as of yesterday. I can't be helped by any conventional method.  
  
Solution: Luckily I remembered my way here.  
  
I will cleanse all free, human thought from my mind. I will flush all emotion and life from my body. I will become prim, efficient, one track, non argumentative, decisive. If I am to stop the free roaming of my mind, I must stop my mind from being free.  
  
There's only one way to do all that without living with the guilt of killing myself. Pardon my contradiction.  
  
And it can't be all that bad. Sonic dealt with it, so can I.  
  
"Excellent choices, Knuckles," he says, grinning his evil grin. His teeth show, white, clean, straight. His breath is minty. I close the catalogue.  
  
"Okay… I'll go through with it. But on one condition: I want to remember someone."  
  
He frowns.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because… just do it. Otherwise I will blow this whole fucking place to Hell. I mean it."  
  
"No need to get uptight," he says. "Who do you want to remember?"  
  
I take a deep breath.  
  
"Rouge."  
  
He knows who I mean.  
  
"Okay."  
  
I smile. "All right. I'm in."  
  
He makes some minor readjustments to the program, telling it to leave that part of my brain alone, and downloads it into his disk. Then he ejects it and slides it across the table.  
  
Here it is. My new mind. It is not insane. It is not normal. It is not anything. It is merely a program by which I will run without argument or contradiction. Why didn't I think of this before?  
  
Answer: Because I'm stupid.  
  
"Welcome aboard," he says, shaking my hand.  
  
I return the shake. I finish off my final, my very final, for my life, cigarette with lust and clamor. I'm going to miss these.  
  
He shows me to the chair.  
  
It seems like the electric chair. I sit down in it. A lock goes over my wrists, ankles, and head, so I can't move or struggle.  
  
"No need for these," I say with a nervous laugh. Maybe I'm lying.  
  
"You'd be surprised," he says. "We've had a few volunteers." He motions toward his assistant that has been hovering around our vicinity for awhile, clomping along the ground. It is a mass complication of matt black steel and stripes chrome red metal, as well as several gun and velocity rocket attachments.  
  
"Lots of pain. Of course, he was probably used to it by then, in the state I found him."  
  
It crosses its arms in an arrogant manner, rasping something at me with a very crackly voice.  
  
"I'll have to fix that," he says, as he punches in some keys and then pulls a lever. There is a loud sound to indicate stand clear. He does so.  
  
I scream loudly.  
  
Several metal needles, clawing and ripping tools, hypodermic syringes, and tubes following them claw into my body. I cannot be seen from the outside now. Only through a wireframe plan can I be monitored.  
  
I want to scream for the pain. The awesome, overwhelming, yet lovely pain. I am silenced as a long, pointed, curving rod forces its way down my throat and begins to remove my voice box. Or encase it in metal parts to make it more efficient and long lasting. I'm not sure. It feels the same.  
  
I can no longer scream, talk, anything. My vocal cords have been completely disabled by a secretion of the long rod.  
  
More needles plunge themselves into my head, emitting a stimulant into my brain that allows it to stay alive while the man's machine is working on it. I can't scream anymore. But it hurts like nothing you can EVER imagine. People like to link the inability to express pain to not feeling it at all—which is why we have vegetarians.  
  
As my brain is being modified into an efficient processor, hard drive, my arms are nearly removed. My bones are slowly dissolved by a hyperactive solution made by long metal rods that have forced their way under my skin. They force their way in and nearly replace my bones exactly. But instead they open, molten steel forming around my now nonexistent phosphate skeleton before my body completely atrophies.  
  
As those rods are removed, my muscles become lined with a hard, indestructible metal alloy. They are now like armored gills across my biceps, and soon spread to the rest of my body. My ribcage is replaced by a hard, armor shell, which has a vitals display on the front. My lungs and heart are replaced by three-function chambers, which are attached to super expandable rubber bags to ventilate cool air around my body. My heart is replaced by a lithium battery that will last me more than a lifetime.  
  
My legs are replaced by super powerful, spring loaded bases of metal. Rockets are implanted in my shins, back shins and soles of my now curved metal feet.  
  
My eyes are covered by a kind of yellow sheath, and upgraded with powerful cameras that feed directly to my operating system, my brain.  
  
Metal shells begin to encase me all around. I have one big, shielded arm, complete with longer, retractable and sharper version of my original knuckles. The other is a hand that can convert into a gun at the point of my palm or finger.  
  
My shoulders are huge, each with aerodynamic pads, streamlined. My dreadlocks have become bladed and hinged. Underneath the blade cover are lots of loose wires and plastic.  
  
My brain is now complete. The disk slides in. My program becomes efficient. I am surprised I can still tell you this, even with the small part of memory I am hanging onto.  
  
My veins have been replaced by wires. My blood replaced by electricity and oil. My heart a battery. My lung a chamber. My metaphor and ass are like exhaust pipes.  
  
The whole thing was over in thirty seconds.  
  
I have been human for nineteen years. An Eggman invention for ten seconds.  
  
My new program has begun to take over. My mission of revenge is complete.  
  
I have become a machine.  
  
I have become a mechanical being.  
  
I have been robotici—  
  
This is model K-501 reporting for training, master. Please input all required information.  
  
"Excellent… my work is complete!"  
  
  
  
***  
  
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.  
  
More.  
  
More.  
  
God, I am loving this.  
  
Now I see why it's such a big deal.  
  
And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.  
  
And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.  
  
This is horrible. Despicable.  
  
But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.  
  
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.  
  
And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.  
  
It's criminal.  
  
It's evil.  
  
And I love it.  
  
How long can it go?  
  
  
  
All night?  
  
By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…  
  
Well, I'll tell you…  
  
I am having sex…  
  
Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.  
  
Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.  
  
Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.  
  
I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.  
  
I recognize that first scream. It belongs to a familiar man.  
  
I recognize the second.  
  
I realize what I have done.  
  
Where I should be.  
  
I realize that the first was not a scream of delight. It was a roar of anger and fear.  
  
I realize the second was not that of the familiar orgasmic moan. It was that of a painful, exhausted groan of agony as I discover where this sudden lubrication has come from.  
  
The door crashes down.  
  
Her romantic interest bursts into the room, bellowing like a rogue elephant.  
  
I unload before pulling out and assuming a stance. God I'm fast.  
  
We take it outside.  
  
A dodge to the left. A punch, a kick. It doesn't take much—he's drunk.  
  
I easily knock him down and out.  
  
And I know there's only one way out of this. Amy going to be a witness, and if I don't do this I'll end up in jail. It's him or me.  
  
I drag him to an alley about a block away.  
  
I take off my mask and gloves, slip them onto his limp form and leave.  
  
***  
  
It's been several months.  
  
I still read the letter.  
  
It's too much for me to bear. But I still read it.  
  
I pull it out and read it again.  
  
I read the other one, the report, along with it.  
  
I cry.  
  
This isn't the first time I've shed a tear for him since I admitted it.  
  
I loved him.  
  
I still love him.  
  
I know I was harsh on Sonic.  
  
"Sonic… you… fucking bastard… I'll never forgive you for this. Ever."  
  
But he deserved it.  
  
"Go… just go! Leave me alone!"  
  
He doesn't deserve my attention.  
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
I exploded at his trial.  
  
"He… he took the only one I love! I can't forgive him! Kill him, for fucks sake, kill that god damn rat!"  
  
I cried when I heard why he did it.  
  
"That's… that's disgusting!"  
  
When I heard that Amy had declined his offer. That he was sick of blowjobs. And she was satisfied with them.  
  
She didn't like him anymore. She'd begun to sway at Knuckles. She didn't particularly idolize my share of the male race like she did hers, but she enjoyed his company. He was better to her.  
  
He claimed he was just doing her a favor, that blue hedgehog. That if she didn't screw him, she'd never lose her virginity.  
  
"BULLSHIT!"  
  
He knew he'd done something wrong. Too late for him, unfortunately.  
  
I don't love Sonic.  
  
I hate Sonic. I'll never forgive him for what he did.  
  
It was proved when Amy's unborn baby became mature enough to do a DNA test on. Amy knows she's only ever had sex once, and it was rape. And the DNA pointed at Sonic.  
  
Sonic was the one who did it.  
  
I couldn't believe it.  
  
"Sonic… how could you!" I screamed before trying to choke him to death and pinning him against the wall.  
  
He didn't only hurt Amy. He took my loved one from me.  
  
I'm sitting at the edge of my bed, smoking his cigarettes from those months ago.  
  
I loved him.  
  
I love him.  
  
Knuckles.  
  
I remember the time we had sex. Possibly made love, in this case. It may have been abrupt and induced by lust. But it was the most amazing thing I had ever experienced. Knuckles. My one. My perfect man. So his head was a little tainted. Schizophrenia—triggered by periods of extreme stress, which I believe he had been going through. Aside from that he was fine.  
  
I continue to cry.  
  
I hope Sonic is churning in his own guilt now. He's been in jail for about six months. I have nearly lost my job for lack of cheerfulness around those sleazy assholes at work. That was my trademark. Besides my over exploited and over operated breasts, that is. They don't know implants when they seem them, obviously.  
  
I rub one. I don' t know why. I'm not wearing anything above my waist. The thought of him always has that effect on me.  
  
I want to touch down below. Relieve my pain. But now is not the time. Amy has walked in.  
  
"Oh… Hi Rouge," she says timidly. I don't feel embarrassed about her seeing me. I know she likes the look. I'm not a lesbian. But after what Sonic did to her I'm not surprised that SHE is.  
  
Besides. I'm used to people of all ages and genders seeing me.  
  
"Hi, Amy," I say to my adopted daughter. Speaking of which, I don't remember the last time children were supposed to refer to their parents by their first name. I guess she's just used to it by now.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asks.  
  
"Yeah," I rasp. My voice has gone to hell. It's all raspy from constant smoking and faked moaning. I really should get my tonsils checked. But I haven't got the money yet.  
  
She sits down next to me on the bed, sidling up closer than I'd like her to. But she is my daughter. She's put on quite a bit of weight. The thing is due in something like three months. Cynical as it is, I'm not thrilled; it's another mouth to feed on my meager pay.  
  
"Just reading Knuckles' stuff again…"  
  
"Oh… okay. Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
No, I'm not okay, Amy. I'm sad. I'm down. I wish I could go mad, like Knuckles did when he left all of us alone.  
  
Sonic tried to frame him. He tossed Knuckles into some alley and let all the evidence point at him. In the end his own libido got him. But if not for the baby I'm sure Knuckles would have been blamed.  
  
The guy somehow knew when to get out of town. I never would have suspected him, simply because I know he couldn't have done it. He's just not that way, even if he did lose his mind. But his little romp after he wrote me that fateful note told him that he had to get out of town. Which he did.  
  
None of us know what happened. Most think he just went back to the island. So do I, but only because that's the only thing I can think of. I went to visit him, the same way I had when I met him. But I couldn't find him anywhere. He could have migrated to the ruins, but he wasn't anywhere near there either. Tails' place is near there. He runs an occasional search, but never finds anything.  
  
I want to see him again. But I never will. I know it.  
  
I want to ask Amy something.  
  
I want her to touch me.  
  
Whatever it is she does to her girlfriends in the living room when they've had a few of my beers, I want her to do to me. But she's pregnant. I can't ask her now. And besides, I'd probably get done for exploitation of a minor, anyhow. Think I want to share a cell with Sonic? Fuck that.  
  
"Here, go see a movie with some of your friends," I say, handing her a few bills. Almost the last of my emergency money. But I need some privacy.  
  
"Thanks," she says, hurriedly grabbing a few of her things, her cellphone, and leaving excitedly. She'll thank me properly later, even though I may not know it. She'll do or say something worthy of calling a proper thanks. She doesn't like to be as outward now.  
  
I read his note. His 'insurance note'. In sloppy handwriting, with a ballpoint pen.  
  
"Rouge—  
  
I've just gone out for a little walk. If you're reading this, you're awake early, and I'm not back yet. Obviously. I'll see you soon. Help yourself to my cigs.  
  
--Knux"  
  
It's the way he wrote it. It makes me feel comforted. Like he's sitting right there next to me. Kissing me. Running his tongue up and down my neck as I shudder in pleasure, taking his hand and moving it down to the now a little less sacred spot between my legs. Fondling turns to deeper penetration. It feels good.  
  
I don't want to stand it any more. The pain of reality, that is. That I am lost and without love. I have no will to stand my very existence any longer.  
  
I pull out the old revolver I've kept in my drawer away from Amy. That's my drug drawer. Devoid of medicinal fare, mind you. She's not allowed in there. Like she actually listens.  
  
I look at Knuckles' letter for a last time, set it aside. I finish off a cigarette.  
  
No matter what you may have did, Knuckles. No matter where you may be.  
  
We'll always wish you could be back here with us. Getting a coffee. Talking.  
  
We'll always miss your company. The way you looked when you laughed, that retarded sarcasm voice you used to make whenever Tails said something stupid.  
  
We'll always miss your love. The way that no matter how idiotic we acted, no matter what stupid things we did, you always forgave us and continued to give the same affection for us you always did. Even if you did hide it behind an iron mask.  
  
I'll always miss you the most.  
  
I'll always love you.  
  
And I'll never forget you.  
  
I slide the cylinder and push the cold steel against my temple.  
  
Bang.  
  
***  
  
END OF FILE  
  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
It's finally over.  
  
Is that really the end of it all? Maybe, maybe not. That depends on whether I can be bothered adding any kind of extension to this. It also depends on the amount of people who actually like this thingamabob—which seems to be a lot. It's very similar to my original pieces and your positive comments feed my desire to publish my novel. I've lost my motive for it, I don't like the premise anymore.  
  
Remember, it may not be over… what if someone had tampered with that gun? What if one slot wasn't loaded when she spun the cylinder? What if it was empty anyhow, some outlet of frustration she never intended to use? What if a completely different person told the story?  
  
Plus: Sean Catlett, Stepehen Zacharus and myself are discussing and jotting down the next set of chapters. Should not be missed if you enjoyed this one, as their talents should help it indefinitely.  
  
With that in mind-- Further or finish. It's your decision.  
  
I guess that's all for now.  
  
G'night, kiddies!  
  
(End music from Conker's BFD plays) 


	16. This is where it begins

What is this, you ask?

This is not just a follow up chapter to The Final Step.

This is the beginning of the sequel, The Day After.

Recently my co-author Stephen Zacharus set up a, as you'd put it, way past cool website for The Day After in precedence to the fic, which is about halfway or so to being complete. Then he told me to post this.

Since I figured it wouldn't hurt to whet the audience appetite, or rekindle your interest a bit I decided that I'd put this up in hopes of seeing what you guys think, promoting the site, and maybe getting a few new fans before the final product comes out. So thanks, guys, if you do read this.

Anyway. The website address is http://tdaproject.tripod.com but be warned—the special features section DOES contain spoilers. We've taken down the link to the songfic version of Zacharus' ending, but any other spoilers are clearly labeled.

Anyway. Enjoy.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

THE DAY AFTER

Premature release chapter one

Untitled

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

My name is Miles Prower, but everyone calls me Tails, because I have two. I work in a convenience store.

It is this completely useless fact that has led me to my whole predicament. I know that last sentence sounded a little too brainy for my size. I didn't mean to.

Working in a convenience store—a dilapidated Fastrip, to be exact--hasn't exactly brought me the joys of having work that I had expected, the ones Sonic told me about. Sonic always said that earning money was a great thing, and to take pride in it you didn't even have to try. It felt good to earn money, he said, before joking about using that money to buy more stuff. More of the good stuff. Not funny.

I can't call it shit. Sonic always told me not to swear. I don't know why I should still respect him enough to listen.

He told me that working somewhere simple was best to start for someone my age. He told me there was a quick-e-mart near his place that I should try.

I went a few times. Eventually I got a job. And then I wound up here, in this happy little situation. Smiles and hugs for everyone.

Sorry if I seem a bit more sarcastic than usual, that is if you know me. If you don't know me, then get used to it.

Anyhow, back on track, right now I'm having a very bad day.

I came to work today with a headache. It only got worse.

Far too many customers today. I work on checkout. Wave after wave of butt ugly, rude people, expecting me to know what every damn person wants the second they step up to the counter. We [apparently] don't have apple flavor, sir. We [very obviously] don't sell those, miss. They're over there in front of the [fucking] door, miss.

I've still got another hour or so to go by the time I finish my break. I really need some coffee. The machine's broken.

I get back. I thought I wanted a longer break. I got one.

But it gets boring.

There aren't any customers. My shift has suddenly been extended (without any kind of warning), and there haven't been any for the last three hours. I guess I'm just that popular (and irritable), and nobody knows I'm working this late. I'm not allowed to read, play Game Gear, leave the counter, and there's nobody to talk to. My headache increases. I cough and feel like my head is going to blow apart for a split second.

"Boss… come on. Let me go."

"No, Miles."

"Boss, there haven't been any customers here for the last few hours. My [extended!] shift is officially over in ten minutes. Let me leave, please."

"No, Miles. You'll have to stay those ten minutes out."

I hate my boss. Well, my supervisor to be exact. I'm sure nearly everybody does.

I'm allowed to go. I feel like… stuff. Ten minutes can do wonders for your health.

As soon as my shift is over I make my way to the toilet and try to throw up in a dignified manner. It ends up coming out as tacked on acting. I really am throwing up. But it's no longer dignified.

As I prepare to leave, I know that I won't be able to fly home today. I pulled something the other day from abusing my gift.

Maybe it's just the stress. I'm still thinking that while I walk out the doors and consider giving the supervisor a sign. But I talk myself out of it. Sonic always told me stress can be hard on someone. He also said that you should always respect your boss externally. He knew from experience.

Which brings up a major point.

Sonic.

Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic.

He taught me everything. He was my best friend, one of my only friends. He was my teacher, my mentor.

It is only after he raped my friend Amy Rose, turned her into a les, and got himself put in jail do I really appreciate the fact that I was dependent on him. And by appreciate I mean really realize, not necessarily… appreciate it.

I was dependent on him for support.

"So why don't you just ask her?"

I was dependent on him for friendship.

"You've always got me."

I was dependent on him for advice.

"That's not the way to do it, trust me."

And, most of all, I was dependent on him for protection.

"Listen… if I ever see you near my little buddy again, I'll make you take that insurance bullshit and shove it up your—"

"Well, if it isn't the little two-tailed freak. Hey, MAI-ulls."

My thoughts are cut short.

Since Sonic went to jail, I had to move back in with my parents, because I can't support the apartment on the equivalent of pumping gas, and they won't let me run away to my workshop slash cottage in the country. And now that I have money and none of Sonic's protection, I have to pay the 'insurance bullstuff'.

School, neighborhood, and mall thugs. You have to hate them. If you are one, I suggest you go cut yourself.

"What do you want?"

Nameless. I don't know the names of any of them except the girl over there on the right, ugly as sin, named Rita. They're all bigger and older than me, and unfortunately in my class because I was skipped ahead two grades. Of course, I still have no common sense.

"What do you think we want?"

I've mindlessly gone through the alley shortcut, completely forgetting that that's where they like to hang out. It's a dismal little area, short path from the direction I came from and then a fork going in opposite directions at the end. Fire escapes, dumpsters, you know the drill.

"I haven't gotten paid yet."

"Well, shoot me in the balls, neither have we. What a coincidence. GIVE IT."

"Look, I've only got two dollars…"

"That'll do as a down payment."

Down payment. Like they actually know what it means. They try to sound smart around me, because I've built planes and they'restill struggling with long division. However I mostly pay this guy named Rotor to do my runway and mechanisms in my beach house, if you can call it that. He's a bit of a geek, but I can't stand dumb people as friends.

The following comment will annoy me beyond belief. They should get their own jobs somewhere.

"Man. Two dollars. That's pathetic, Miles! Come on, even my mom will give me more than that. You don't get us enough cash."

"Well, I'm sorry I can't be the man your mother is."

It takes a moment for the comeback to sink in. By then I've already proven the point that being one of the only kids in school who can fly is a definite advantage. Although I realize that lately I've been using it for escape a bit too much.

I give one or two somewhat painful spins of my rear appendages and leap in a Matrix manner to a fire escape above. By then theyhave realized they have been insulted and started yelling curses at me from down there. I leap from stairwell to stairwell, carelessly dodging crude projectile trash that eventually stops coming

But then it finally happens. This has been foreshadowed from the start.

I slip. 

My foot catches on something as I try to jump, and I begin careening to the alley floor below. I can't pick myself up because of my pulled muscle.

I hit solid concrete. Hard. I'm winded. But that doesn't stop them from practically kicking my head in.

"Little faggot…"

I groan loudly in pain as my nose is smashed against the concrete and I am bitch-slapped in the cheek. I don't think it's broken, but it's definitely bleeding. I don't cry. I never do.

As they leave, I throw up again.

And there's my little situation. I work in a convenience store. And as a result I frequently get pounded.

"Tails… Tails?"

She's older than me by two years, making her fifteen. She's in my class, and until recently I had a crush on her. She's now a lesbian. Her hair is pink and spiked down.

She helps me up from the ground and I turn to look at her after brushing off my… very recently washed… work uniform. Normally pink. Today white as a ghost.

"Hi, Tails…"

No, not the clothes.

"Hi, Amy." I rub my nose painfully. "Haven't got a tissue, have you?"

"Tails," she says weakly. Ignore the tissue then, I'll do without.

"What?"

"Tails."

Something's bothering her. She's not usually like this. For example, she's stupidly come here more than two hours after I was supposed to have finished.

"You know I should have finished hours ago."

"Oh…. Oh. Yeah."

"What's the matter, Amy? You look like you've seen a corpse in your bed or something."

"Well… bad news, Tails."

Juicy.


End file.
